


The Dark Prince (Continued)

by hitmewiththatfanart33, TheWitchiestBitch



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Loceit - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Prinxiety - Freeform, Snow White Elements, logicality - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 67,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitmewiththatfanart33/pseuds/hitmewiththatfanart33, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWitchiestBitch/pseuds/TheWitchiestBitch
Summary: An interesting twist on Snow White. When Prince Virgil is ripped from his secluded, peaceful life of loneliness in a failed assassination attempt by his stepfather, he's left crashing through the woods and into the arms of a rugged miner who isn't all he seems to be. Spontaneous romances, magic, revolution, and tragic backstories bring about the final question: how will our characters prevail?
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. The Fairest of Them All

Prince Virgil was that of pale skin and dark eyes. The kind of prince that was romanticized; the kind that was daydreamed about. However, he himself was humble, and was clueless to his gift of beauty, for he had no one to tell him so. His father died when in the first year of his life, and his mother followed just a few years ago, shortly after remarrying - and though the circumstances behind her death seemed suspicious, they were never looked into, much to Virgil's dismay. So he was left alone with a stepfather who didn't seem to care for him much.

Most of his days were spent alone - something he was fine with - but there were days where the loneliness weighed down on him with a crushing weight. This was especially true as he grew into adulthood.

With the solitude he was forced into came patience, and he used that virtue to befriend whatever animals he came across. And there were plenty. Virgil had a calming presence, and he was frequently approached or surrounded by the birds, chipmunks, and rabbits that roamed through the castle's garden.

He fed them on the days when the loneliness was particularly unbearable, scattering breadcrumbs or pieces of his own food. He found that the more he fed them, the more of them approached him. He was never truly alone with them by his side, and over the years, they had grown to trust him as if he were one of their own.

On one warm day, the prince sat on the steps outside his room, basking in the sunlight. He had his own little corner of the castle, which was almost like a guest house due to how detached and secluded it was. In front of the steps was a well, and the garden was located to the sides. He liked to tend the roses, something he had learned how to do from his mother before she'd passed. Though they were thorny, they were incredibly beautiful in the darkness of the bushes and petals, and they gave him something to do.

And on this day, it was as peaceful as it had ever been. Virgil sighed, getting up and staring down into the dark well. Down into the dark water so far below. One of the doves he'd gained the trust of perched beside him, just as invested in the plain stone wall built around a hole in the ground as he was. It was a mystery, really, why he gave any attention to it at all.

"Hello!" he yelled down into the water, his voice bouncing off the stone before echoing softly back up to him.

To any onlooker, it would seem as though he had the perfect life. And in a way, it was perfect - really, it was - but the people he shared it with (or the lack therefore of, rather) were what made it tragic. Even more so tragic was how it would all be torn from him on that warm, sunny day. A cruelty he had never known nor deserved was to be served to him by the one who never paid him any attention at all: his stepfather.

On this day, Prince Virgil would come to regret wishing to be seen.

***

It was by simple luck that he had become king with no wife to pester him; no needy heirs causing trouble. He was only stuck with one child, grown and quiet enough to not be a hindrance. Didn't even have to speak to the thing, he did. His only job was to run the kingdom as he saw fit, and there was no one to keep him from it, not even the child who was nearly old enough to be coronated. He'd let the boy live a while longer. That is, until he became a threat.

Bored and vain, he stood from his throne of dark wood, pushing his cape behind his heels. The throne was intricately carved with a long, thin rectangular backing to support the full height his sins reached. From there, he went to his mirror with clicking boots. Such a perfect little thing he was.

When he flicked his wrist, the familiar dark blue glow illuminated his face. So many times he asked this question, just to hear his Logan say it. He didn't know why it entranced him so.

"Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" he cooed.

The face staring back at him, one that was not his own, rolled his eyes with a sigh. He must tire of hearing it day after day. The king paid no mind, only wishing to hear the answer. However, today something was different. The intelligent face in the glass looked taken aback, surprised almost, as he stuttered for the first time since he'd known him. "P-Prince Virgil," he replied with a questioning tone.

The king felt fury rise up inside him at the response, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second, working to keep his cool. Perhaps it was just a faulty response - perhaps something had gone wrong or gotten lost in translation.

"I _said_ , who is the fairest of them all?" He repeated, somehow able to keep his voice steady.

And again his Logan repeated, in the same, unsure tone, "Prince Virgil."

He clenched his jaw at the response, unable to believe it. There was no way that the spoiled little prince could be fairer than he. Up until that day, the mirror had answered - day in and day out - that he was the fairest of them all. What had changed?

"What do you mean the boy's the fairest?" It was a miracle, truly, that his voice didn't pitch in the sheer fury that trembled his body. He clenched his fists at his sides, narrowing his eyes.

"I— I just come up with the answers, I don't know what they mean. You'll have to be more specific," Logan flatly stated. His panic was swallowed by his practice of being emotionless.

Dante sucked in a sharp, cold breath, colder than Logan's glass, and let his question roll off his tongue with chilling steadiness. " _How_ has the boy surpassed me in his fairness?" Whatever the answer, the king knew he wouldn't like it. And when he didn't like things, well, he got angry.

"With compassion," his mirror forced the answer.

If Dante were to bite his tongue any harder, it'd bleed. **_Bleed_**. Ideas, ideas. "Show me my true self!" he ordered. He hadn't seen it in such a long time. Once upon a time, it was flawless, and it had stayed that way until loneliness, greed, vanity, and frustration built up inside him. With his Logan existing only behind a mirror, he'd become so bitter, it made him rotten to the core.

The magical one grimaced, fading from view until all that was left was his own marred reflection. He could've convinced himself that it was the real thing if not for the blue glow around the edges. The sight made him want to scream, made him want to shatter the mirror, and he would have if it wasn't his only companion. For on his face were the scales of a monster.

He reached up to touch his face, to assure himself that what he saw in the reflection wasn't reality, and as he lifted his hands, he saw that the scales extended there as well. His fingers were blackened, his nails curved talons. With a sharp exhale and a clenched jaw, Dante turned his face away from the mirror, waving away the image.

He didn't want to see it anymore. It was all too much. When had he become such a horrible, monstrous person? He had known that he wasn't the same man he had been many years ago - had felt the change happening as his heart hardened and froze over - but he had never imagined to what extent.

And somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care all too much. He had everything he could ever want. He had power, and money, and very few responsibilities. The only thing out of place in his plans was the prince.

Virgil had to go.

Logan hated watching such a cunning ruler go mad. Maybe he was partly to blame, maybe he should've filtered his answers, but somewhere along the lines, he'd failed his king. So when the order was shouted, he retreated within himself, knowing something truly wicked was about to be conspired. The words forced spittle from Dante's lips from the force with which he yelled them, finally succumbing to his anger.

"Bring me the huntsman!" 


	2. The Hunter and the Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though he's risking his own life, Patton can't kill Virgil and lets him go.

There was nothing wrong with hunting - not when it was done as a means of survival. Patton reasoned this with himself on a near-daily basis, feeling a pang in his heart with every animal he had to slaughter to feed himself and the others in his village. He was the best hunter in this village, which he thought was a bit strange, considering the fact that he was never all too fond of the action, but he never questioned it. It was just another fact of life for him.

He was the only hunter who was able to bring in at least one animal every hunt. He had to feed the other inhabitants of the village in times when the crops ran low, and he had to serve the king. Everyone had to serve the king. The farmers had to deliver crops to the castle, the seamstresses had to deliver cloth, the blacksmiths had to deliver weapons, and the hunters had to deliver meat and animal hide.

After a rather successful hunt, Patton rode his horse to the castle, saddle bag containing three minks. He hoped it would be enough to appease the king; he had taken the deer back to his village before heading out this way, knowing that he needed it for food.

He nodded a greeting to the guards before being waved in past the entrance. In all the times that he had been here, he never got used to the sheer beauty and extravagance of the palace. He dismounted his horse and tied her reins loosely around a post before grabbing his saddle bag and heading into the palace.

He was permitted into the throne room after greeting another guard, and he felt all the air rush from his lungs. The outside of the palace hardly held a candle to the grandeur of this room alone. Gold and gemstones were embedded in and entwining the most trivial things, the room glittering from the sunlight that poured in from the stained glass window behind the throne. And sitting in the middle of it all was the king.

King Dante.

Now usually they sent him straight to the kitchen to deliver his kills of the day, but he supposed today was one of the rare occasions the king checked in on him or requested something specific. "Your majesty," he swallowed with a bow. It seemed they had been expecting him, which was not a common occurrence. In fact, this _never_ happened.

The king gave a cold, unblinking stare. It reminded Patton of the snakes he often came across in the woods; snakes that could easily bite his dogs if he wasn't careful. He loved his hounds as if they were his own children, so to compare his king to snakes was the same as saying he was a threat to the people of the kingdom. And as of late, that wasn't wrong.

"I have a job for you," he vaguely began. He said this as if Patton had no choice. The whole thing made him want to throw up from fear. He swallowed it, giving an obedient nod instead. "You will be paid handsomely as long as you do exactly as I say without question. Understood?" He dictated. His fingers tapped on the arm of his throne.

Patton felt as if he were being watched, but from where and by whom, he didn't know. He kept glancing to the black mirror embedded with sapphires without knowing why. Thoughts snapping back to the King's question, he realized he couldn't very well say no, but every bone in him wanted to. "Of course, your majesty."

What he said next made Patton want to run. He said it calmly, nonchalantly as if it were as simple as delivering a letter. "Take the prince into the woods to pick herbs, berries, _whatever_ grows there... and kill him. Bring his heart to me as proof of your deed." A small dark box with purple gemstones produced itself from beneath the king's robes.

Patton gaped at the box, his brows pulling together as his facade cracked at the request. He couldn't believe the king would ask something this wicked of him. Well, no... he could. He quickly pulled himself together again, closing his mouth, though the fear in his eyes was inescapable.

He wanted to ask why, to decline, to run, to... do anything. But he knew that he couldn't. Instead, he nodded, taking the box from the king's hands. "Yes, your majesty."

He glanced once again towards the black mirror as he took the box, holding it gingerly in his hands. Something about the reflective piece called to him, which in and of itself made no sense; it was just a mirror. Sure, it didn't match the rest of the throne room, with black swirling metal and sapphires rather than gold and emeralds, but that didn't mean there was anything special about it.

He tore his eyes from the mirror and met the king's eyes once more, stepping back from the throne. It would have been so easy to attack him then, being as close as he had been, and if Patton were anybody else, he would have. There were no guards in the throne room, he hadn't been frisked for weaponry on his way in, and King Dante didn't have a sword within reach.

However, he didn't believe the king was completely unarmed. Everything in this room: his presence, the mirror, the strange luck he had... it all screamed dark magic. Though Patton wasn't one to accuse people of such things, there were far too many rumors for him not to. Some guards whispered that he talked to spirits when he was alone.

"The guard outside will take you to the prince. Do hurry, I don't like to be kept waiting." He waved his hand dismissively.

After another moment's pause, Patton turned on his heel, opening an empty pouch in his saddle bag and pushing the box inside. He left the throne room, and the guard directly outside the door nodded silently before starting walking. Patton hurried after him, not wanting to be left behind; one could easily get lost in the labyrinth of hallways.

He was led out through a large, arched doorway into a rose garden. The prince sat in the center, his violet cape settled on the ground behind him as he carefully weeded one of the rose bushes. Patton thought it strange that he didn't have one of his caretakers do this for him, but he admired that even with his status, the prince did these things for himself.

He cleared his throat softly as the guard left them, moving just as silently as he had before, and the prince looked up from his rose bush, calm surprise in his eyes.

"Your Highness." Patton bowed deeply, averting his eyes from the prince's face.

He couldn't do this, could he? Already the prince presented himself to be kind-hearted and innocent at first glance, so how could Patton possibly in his right mind perform the slaughter? _If not the prince, then it was his own head on a platter or swinging from the gallows_ , he told himself. Oh how he wished the boy simply hadn't spoken.

"And who might you be?" he softly inquired. His voice was soft and sweet enough to coax even the most frightened of animals to him. He brushed the dirt from his hands, moving to stand before Patton.

"The king sent me to be your escort. Wants me to take you to the woods for mushrooms," he supplied. Mushrooms were a safe lie, for he saw those more frequently than the snakes.

The prince, Virgil, looked a bit confused, but seemed to go along with it regardless. "Oh, well then lead the way," he requested with a drawn-in face. Patton nodded, forcing a smile as he walked past the garden and into the woods.

They walked in silence for a while, Virgil curiously creeping ahead to explore a bit. He didn't seem to get to leave the castle often, or if he did, he was too nervous to go alone. After what seemed an eternity of walking - but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes - they reached a small clearing where the mushrooms Patton had used as an excuse grew.

It was far enough away from the castle that it was unlikely anyone would discover the body before the wolves got to it. The horrible thoughts made Patton want to cry.

He chewed at his lip, forcing back the tears and the sick feeling that churned in his stomach. He had really lured the young prince out here to kill as if he were some prey. The leaves softly shuffled under his feet, the occasional stick breaking or bird chirping. Each noise made him jump, fear coursing through him that someone was going to see him, though he knew that there was nobody else out this way. There never was.

Virgil silently kneeled down and began plucking at mushrooms, seeming to be perfectly content to have something to do with his hands. The hunter stood behind him, leaned up against a tree. He needed a moment to gather himself.

"So what's your name?" Virgil piped up eventually, not looking up from the mushrooms that he gathered, cradling them in the folds of his cape.

Patton knew he had to do it quickly before he grew too attached to the boy who was just trying to start a conversation. "Patton," he supplied, his dagger slipping down into his hand. It had a black hilt wrapped in thin leather string, and curved at the end of the blade, as well as all three limbs of the handle.

He raised the weapon. He stood just above the prince's bent back, trying to decide the most painless area to strike. He knew he very well couldn't aim for the heart, for the king wanted it in the box that weighed at his hip. _Come on Patton. It's just another job_ , he tried to convince himself.

He didn't believe the lies he told himself. He couldn't do this. There was no way he was going to be able to live with himself if he had to do this, if he actually went through with it.

Virgil opened his mouth to ask another question.

And with one final motion, Patton let the blade slip from his fingers, hitting the leaves beneath him with a heavy thud that made the prince jump. The boy flipped around, glancing at the dagger as he crawled backwards on his hands in horror.

"I'm so sorry," Patton wept. He stepped back to put space between himself and the dagger, his hands held in front of himself defensively. "He would've killed me— please forgive me," he begged, tears spilling over.

Virgil had all the patience in the world for birds. Birds he could handle. But humans never had his trust to begin with, so why should he spare them the same courtesy when they'd just been proven capable of plotting murder? His heart raced and he wanted to flee, but he chose to fight. "Who?" He hissed the words with a venom that hadn't been there a moment ago, the softness of his tone turned harsh, cutting across the air between them and making Patton flinch instinctively.

"Th-the king. He wants you dead. He's expecting me back soon with your heart in a box... You have to go! I'll figure this out," Patton panicked. How was he going to fix this? He supposed it was better that his own neck be on the line than the boy's.

Virgil stood with a scowl and a shuffle, staring down Patton. He looked a moment longer, before turning and fleeing, dropping the mushrooms he had so carefully picked. He didn't know where he was running, really - just that it was somewhere far away. There had to be an end to the woods, didn't there?

Patton watched the prince flee, frozen to his spot. His heart gave a dull thud in his chest as he realized what he had just done; as he realized that he had just practically placed his own head on the chopping block. But at least the prince was safe. Well... safer than he was back at the palace, anyhow.

After a long moment - long after the prince's form had disappeared into the darkness of the woods - Patton knelt down and picked his knife up from the grass.

How was he going to explain this?


	3. Through the Bramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil finds a cottage.

Virgil crashed through the woods swifter than he'd ever moved before. Branches from trees and thorns growing up from the ground tore at him from every which way, leaving dozens of small red scratches along his skin. As he gasped for air, he was hit with the realization that he was leaving behind everything he knew. Every book he'd ever owned, his clothes, any reminder of his mother: all gone because he was wanted dead.

Where would he go? How would he survive? How would he make money? He didn't know a single thing about the outside world, and there was no way he'd ever make it. He wasn't strong enough for farming, which was quite possibly the only job anyone would consider giving a foreigner.

His cape caught on some particularly thick limbs, a ripping sound coming from behind him. He used to love the woods with all the creatures it supplied him, but now he despised it, and decided it was best to view from a distance. He struggled to free himself with a scream of frustration that sent distant birds scattering. It was eventually decided that he'd just take his cape off and leave it behind.

He didn't get much farther before tripping on a rock and face-planting into the forest floor. He grunted, groaning at his now scraped-up hands and the way the air had been forced out of him. That's when he looked up and noticed a small cottage. He rolled onto his back, breathing for a moment.

Everything was all too much. The world was spinning too fast and the sun streaming in through the branches was too bright. He laid on his back for a long moment, feeling tears pricking in his eyes. He couldn't cry. Yes, it would be completely understandable to cry - he had lost everything he held dear and every inch of him ached - but despite everything that he had gone through in the last few minutes of his life, something held him back.

Something told him that he needed to stay strong. To fight the tears that welled in his eyes.

They spilled over anyways.

With the first of the tears, Virgil broke, sobbing silently on the forest floor amidst the leaves and brush. After a long moment, his tears subsided enough for the world around him to come back into focus, though it was still blurred through the tears, and when it did and he sat up, he saw that he had been surrounded by the animals of the forest. His friends.

One rabbit approached him hesitantly, its nose wiggling as it smelled the air, and hopped up onto his knee. With a short laugh - that was more breath than noise - Virgil wiped at his teary cheeks with the back of one hand, the other coming forward to pet the rabbit.

His hand trailed from the small space on its head and down its sleek back with the smallest of smiles pulled forth from the darkness of just a moment ago. "Sorry," he sniffled with another breathy laugh, "I don't have any food today." As if it had understood him, the rabbit hopped off his knee and began chewing at his shirt.

Despite the grimness and horror and fear of the forest, the animals he had grown so fond of were still there for him; they were still able to calm his nerves. Virgil sat with the animals for only a minute longer before pulling himself achingly to his feet. He turned and looked at the cottage, preparing himself for the worst, and trudged over to it.

By the looks of the tiny thing, it seemed to be abandoned. Or just really unkempt. The wood was seconds away from beginning to rot, the window too dusted over to see in. He moved his exhausted limbs to the front door, resigning to rest here awhile for shelter, knowing he'd have to sustain himself on mushrooms, berries, and whatever else he could find for as long as he could manage. He would simply hunt, but he couldn't betray the trust of the animals like that. He needed them.

The door groaned open, revealing a homely- if not plain dusty- main room. He didn't think anyone lived here, and if they did, it didn't matter much. It was stay here or die, and the answer was obvious. Okay. He could work with this.

It was best, he thought, to clean up a bit before he allowed himself to sit down. The second he sat, he knew he wouldn't be getting up again for quite some time. So he took to doing the dishes. Possibly an old woman lived here? A cottage in the middle of the woods seemed like the kind of thing reserved for old retired people, but what did he know? He was raised in a castle.

It didn't take long for the small stack to be finished and put away- regardless of the fact that his hands stung sorely and shook- the task having mostly distracted him from the earlier events. He told himself he'd do some light dusting and _then_ he'd sleep. He couldn't just leave the house he was to hide out in a mess. He grabbed a good-sized stick from outside, tying a piece of ripped cloth to it - and another around each hand to cover the scrapes from falling in the forest - and using that to get the window and dish-shelves.

Enough distraction, he thought. He was really very tired, fatigue from his race through the forest weighing down on every part of him, and he knew all this cleaning was just to keep him from unpleasant dreams and thoughts. His own stepfather trying to kill him? Likely starving to death, lost in the middle of the woods? Those were things that would drive him to sobbing fits bordering on insanity. He was never meant for all this. Why'd he have to be born a prince instead of some humble peasant with a knack for befriending animals?

He ventured upstairs, collapsing onto the first bed he saw. Dreamless sleep had mercy on him, warding away the thoughts.

***

When Roman got done with his work in the mines for the day, all he wanted was to rest. He wanted to go back to his home - old and dusty as it was - and curl up in his bed, and sleep. He made his way back to the small cottage that was nestled into the woods, his own little home away from home.

It wasn't much - one bedroom, a living room, washroom, and a kitchen - and he never had the spare time or the energy after work to clean away the dust and cobwebs, but it was perfect. As he approached the cottage, his brows pulled together in confusion, his eyes fixated on the open door.

_Perhaps it had been opened by an animal_ , he told himself. A deer, maybe. He managed to convince himself of this before pushing open the door the rest of the way and walking into the cottage. And any part of him that had been convinced that it was an animal disappeared.

His cottage had been cleaned, the dishes in the kitchen washed and stacked neatly, the dust gone from the shelves and windows. With panic flooding very briefly into his chest, Roman gripped the handle of his pickaxe and made his way throughout the downstairs of the cottage.

He didn't find anyone.

Taking a deep breath, he faced the stairs; if the intruder was still in the house, they were in his upstairs. As he climbed the stairs, the old wood creaking under each step he took, he found himself thinking that it was rather odd for someone to break into his home and clean it. What kind of chaotic being did that?

Nonetheless, he was certain that it was something that meant him harm.

He checked the washroom first. He already knew somehow that the intruder wasn't in there, but it was better to be safe than sorry, right? As he pushed open the door, he was met with an expectedly empty room. All that remained was his bedroom.

He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and gripping the handle of the pickaxe tighter, and pushed open the bedroom door.

His heart pounded at the first sight of a human-shaped lump on his bed. He approached closer, at least comforted by the fact that they were asleep: an odd thing to do, yet not as much as cleaning his house. He was **sure** there _had_ to be a reasonable explanation for this...

Suddenly it all froze when he saw his face. No longer did he hear the birds outside the window, feel the weapon in his hand, or think about a strange intruder and a clean house. He could only stare, entranced at the pale skin, dark hair, and just all-around sheer beauty of the man in his bed. And though his clothes were nearly torn beyond repair, they appeared to belong to someone of a higher class... a prince, to be exact. He should know.

So what was he doing in Roman's bed?


	4. Prince on the Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Roman meet and immediately hit it off.

Virgil sensed the shift in the air when the door opened and he slowly regained consciousness. He could feel that there was someone else in the room, but it took him a moment to wake up enough to be able to move. The bed wasn't as comfortable as the one he was so used to - it wasn't even close - and he was somehow even more sore and aching than he had been before falling asleep hardly an hour ago.

After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes, sitting up, and he was met with the sight of a man. He was tall, his skin a shade that suggested that he had once been beautifully tanned but now spent too little time in the sun, and he wore dusty, ragged clothes that hung too loosely off of his frame. He looked wild, afraid, and somehow intrigued at the same time.

Virgil's eyes widened and he stared at the man for a fraction of an instant, panic flooding his chest once more, and when his eyes flickered over to the huge pickaxe in the man's hands, the panic overflowed. He scrambled off the bed, hands held in front of himself protectively, and he backed away from the man as hurriedly as he possibly could. Virgil's expression mimicked that of a deer caught unaware, his eyes impossibly wide and his pale face paling even further.

Roman paused, his gaze finally tearing from Virgil's face and going instead to the pickaxe in his hands. He set it on the floor beside him, moving slowly, and put his hands up to show Virgil that he meant no harm.

"It's okay, I didn't mean to scare you..." he whispered softly, although he himself was possibly just as frightened as Virgil, only he didn't externalize his fear in anything but bravado.

"Who are you?" Virgil's voice trembled, but it carried a tinge of anger rather than that of fear.

"I am the owner of this cottage." Good. Best not to give him his name yet. Roman didn't know whether or not this prince had been sent to find him or not. He wouldn't put it past his family to send someone for him. They had done it before.

See, when you didn't want the responsibility of being held to the highest standard - being forced to be a perfect figure the kingdom looked up to - you ran away and became a miner. Or at least Roman did... he didn't know if anyone else would have that reaction to being prince. Another reason up there on the list of things that made him run away was the simple fact that he realized he didn't want to marry a princess. And Remus - his twin brother - could only cover for him for so long.

But that was besides the point.

The roughed-up prince cast his eyes away, rubbing at his shoulder, and muttering a small, "Sorry for intruding." He seemed as if he wanted to say more, but he was unsure of what and how much. Must be a complicated story, one that he didn't trust him with yet. That was fine. It wasn't like Roman didn't have his own princely secrets.

"It's okay... You obviously needed asylum. What is a... prince doing in my cottage exactly?" He prodded.

The darkly-dressed one's eyes widened, looking suspiciously up at him before glancing down at his clothes and relaxing. Something ghastly must've occurred to him. "Assassination attempt ordered by the king..." he carefully replied, squinting at Roman guardedly.

Coming from any other person, the sharpness this stranger harbored with him would've been rude. But it wasn't just any ordinary person; this boy had the kind of knowing brown eyes that reserved an unconditional kindness only for a select few, excusing any rudeness at all. Roman wished to be one of those few. "So your..." he began.

"No," the boy cut him off, "My father died when I was young. This man married my mother for his own self-gain and was probably responsible for her death." Once he had finished spitting out the bitter words, he took a breath and looked utterly destroyed. No wonder he was untrusting towards him.

Roman sighed when he saw tears edge into the other's eyes. He seemed to have had a really long day, and likely just needed some form of comfort. "I'm Roman," he offered with a soft smile that caused a twinkling in his eyes. He held his breath, nervous that he'd be recognized, and sighing when the name triggered nothing but gratefulness in the stranger's face. "You can stay as long as you need, nothing required in return."

His face opened up a bit, as if it were the kindest act anyone had ever shown him. He chewed on his lip, considering something— turning it over and over in his head before quickly murmuring it. "V-Virgil. My name is Virgil."

"It's very nice to meet you, Virgil. Are you the one who cleaned my house?" He made sure to keep his voice gentle, and after a moment, Virgil edged his way out of the corner he had backed himself into. His eyes no longer held the panic that they had before.

He nodded. "I figured if... if I was to stay here, I may as well do my part in keeping the place clean. It looked like it needed it."

Roman couldn't fight the tinge of embarrassment that he felt at the other's words. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down and away from him for a second. "I spend a lot of my time in the mines or venturing into town to go to the market. I don't have much time for cleaning."

"No worries. I can keep the place clean while I'm staying here. Hopefully it won't be too long, though I don't know where I'll go after I leave." He toyed with the torn hem of his sleeve, the black fabric in stark contrast to the ivory paleness of his fingers. "I hate to ask, but... do you have any extra clothes? Mine are..." He waved down at himself, at the clothing that was just barely holding together.

Roman opened a small closet on the far end of the room and pulled out an outfit similar to the one he was wearing, though nicer in that they weren't coated in soot and dust. He held the clothing out to Virgil, and when he eyed it cautiously, Roman set it on the bed instead with a soft smile. "It might not fit you, but there are some sewing supplies here in the closet left by the last owner if you need to take it in any."

He left Virgil then, closing the door behind him and heading into the washroom to clean up. He washed his face in the lukewarm water, combing his mussed up hair back with his fingers, and when he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror. It was old and dusty, his reflection warped by the old metal, but it worked well enough for him to see himself looking back at him.

He had never particularly disliked the way he looked - with the golden brown wavy hair that fell across his forehead, the high cheekbones and soft skin that suggested high status, and the brilliantly green eyes that he had inherited from his mother - but all the softness of him was gone now. Far too long he'd worked in the mines, coating his skin in the black dust and wearing calluses into the palms of his hands, hiding himself away from the sun until his tan faded away and the bright innocence faded from his eyes. He almost missed it... Being a young adventurous boy in the castle, that is.

He heard the bedroom door open after a moment and he tore himself away from the stranger in the mirror, leaving the washroom. Virgil stood in the doorway of the bedroom, Roman's clothes hanging off of him, too large on him and hiding most of his hands. He appeared somehow even smaller in the clothes than he had curled up on the mattress.

His red-faced staring ended when Virgil cocked his head to the side, holding his arms out in front of him with a grumpy glare. Roman swallowed and quickly looked away. Clearing his throat, he faltered, "I'm sure if you roll up the sleeves..." With the skeptical look Virgil gave him, his exhaustion, and the whole situation really, Roman burst out laughing.

Virgil crossed his arms, clearly not amused. He restrained himself, laughter dying down to a light, broken chuckle as he shook his head. "Let's get you cleaned up." He held his palms out for Virgil to take in a way that suggested his aim was to inspect the cloth he'd tied around his hands.

He was watched for a still moment, before the guarded one finally slid his hands into Roman's offered ones. His fingertips gently held Virgil's, and he turned his backhand towards the ground. These wouldn't do. He had real gauze anyways, stuff that wouldn't cause a minor infection. As carefully as he could, he let go of one of the hands to untie each wrap, Virgil's wary gaze slowly becoming softer.

He let the cloth drop to the floor, deciding to get it later, before pulling Virgil into the washroom. He kept most supplies here for when he got injured. Virgil let him work in comfortable silence, and as he attended even the smallest cuts, he couldn't help but feel sympathetic for the trials the poor boy had been through that day.

"What's your story?" Virgil spoke up after a while.

The question surprised him to say the least. "Huh? Oh..." he drew his eyebrows together. How did one portray that he ditched his duties as a prince, without disregarding all that the other one had been through or making himself seem cowardly? There was also the fact that Virgil could still be a spy sent after him, but he didn't find that likely.

Virgil quickly corrected himself. "Sorry. You— uh... don't have to answer that."

Roman shook his head. "No it's fine, I just... it's a really long story. A bit embarrassing, a bit unbelievable. But the basis is that I ran away from home to escape responsibility and marriage," he told him without revealing much.

Virgil nodded, mulling over the response that Roman had given him - as small as it was. He couldn't help but wonder if he was telling the truth, and he really had only run from home to escape responsibility and marriage. He was obviously high in status, with the way he carried himself, or at least Virgil was mostly sure of it. It was difficult to imagine that the man in front of him, who cleaned and bandaged his wounds so expertly with calloused fingers and wielded a large pickaxe like it was as light as a twig, was of high status.

"How long have you been out here on your own?" Virgil asked after a long moment. He wondered how long he would be able to manage it. If Roman could do it, maybe he could, too.

Roman looked up from Virgil's hands, his fingers carefully tucking the bandage on one of the hands even while he wasn't looking. It was almost as if he had gone through the motions of patching up wounds so often that it was mere muscle memory by this point. "It's been a long time." He couldn't remember precisely how long. The days and months blurred together after a while when the only thing you had to do was mine and go to the market; the only thing that gave any hint towards what day it even was was the fact that the market closed on Sundays.

"How do you do it?" Virgil still regarded him with caution, watching him as if he were a wild animal who was liable to snap at him at any moment. Roman didn't blame him for the caution; after the day that he had had, the small trust for his stepfather shattered beyond repair, Roman wouldn't have blamed him if he had run from the house the instant he'd seen him.

"It was difficult at first, but after a while, you kind of fall into the motions of it all and it's not so bad." There was no need to tell him about the countless nights of sleeplessness and tears until he got to that point. Not when Virgil didn't have a choice in the fact that he had to run from home.

"I grew up alone too," he confided. The only thing different between him and Roman was the choice to be alone, and the fact that Virgil had the animals to keep him company. Not only that, but he had servants to keep him alive, so he supposed he had it good. Without the birds and rabbits, Virgil would have broke long ago, so how did Roman do it all by himself? Maybe he'd have to stay longer than he thought.

Roman had stopped bandaging his hands, simply holding them and watching the ground. "You don't have to leave, you know. I know we just met, but neither of us seem to have anyone, and I know I wouldn't mind the company," he wavered.

Virgil was silent for a long moment, his eyes drifting away from Roman's face and instead resting on their hands. He could have withdrawn his hands from Roman's at any moment. He wasn't holding them tightly, rather just gently cradling each of his hands in the palms of his. He felt his heart speed up in his chest, his stomach fluttering when Roman's thumbs brushed lightly against the space where the edges of the bandages met his skin, the calluses rough against Virgil's soft skin.

He didn't suppose it would be the worst thing in the world to stay here. He could sleep in the living room on the couch, he would clean while Roman was out and he would learn to cook whatever he brought in from the market. He would be safe here - or at least, safer than he would be wandering in the forest. Eventually, decisively, he nodded.

"Thank you."

The words seemed insignificant compared to what Roman was offering him. He was offering him refuge. He was offering him a place to lay his head at night and a warmth he would have no hopes of finding outside.

He was offering him a home.


	5. A Game of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprised Patton meets Logan, who saves his life. He'll just have to return the favor.

Patton no longer found the grand room warm in its glowing beauty. In fact, he was sure that if he even brushed against a gemstone, it'd freeze him so badly it would burn. He began the long walk before the throne, anything with any sort of luster mocking him with its glint, biting and jumping out at him. They knew what he'd done... they had to have. Still, he gripped the box with bloody hands, kneeling to present it to the king.

His hands trembled and his stomach kept pushing at his throat, but something seemed to cheer him on. So with a breath, he greeted, "Your majesty." Again he felt like he was being watched, the feeling even stronger and more welcoming this time. His eyes moved to the mirror before snapping back to the king.

Logan was about to go back into hiding when something caught his intrigue. He watched, unseen, as the hunter entered the throne room, the small box King Dante had given him in his bloodied hands. He looked absolutely terrified, his face pale as if he'd seen a ghost, and it was obvious even from where Logan watched that his hands were shaking.

Despite the fear so obvious on his face, Logan couldn't help but marvel at his beauty. At the soft strength to him and the brightness to his eyes that was visible even though he stared at the floor.

Dante pulled a silken handkerchief from his pocket and used it to cover the top of the box as he opened it, not wanting to get blood on his gloves. Patton gulped, his head still lowered as the king regarded the heart in the box for a long moment of silence. After telling the prince to run, Patton had hunted down one of the wild pigs that roamed the forest and cut out its heart to put in the box. All it would take was a lingering stare and any experience in seeing human hearts for the king to know that this was slightly too large, and it would all be over.

After what seemed an eternity, Dante closed the box again and took it from Patton's hands. "Very well. I trust you have disposed of him so he won't be found." He posed the statement somehow as both a question and a demand. He left no room for Patton to say no, so he simply nodded once, still not lifting his eyes from the floor.

And that was the moment Logan began rooting for this man. The cunning huntsman appeared to possess more than just a literal heart, putting himself in danger by defying the king's orders. He had put a pig's heart in that box— Logan was sure of it. Maybe someone could stop the king, and maybe he had already met that someone, possibly it being the huntsman and the still very-much-living prince. Yes, it was true that Logan loved Dante, but that was long ago, and this was no longer Dante. His love had died the same day he had become trapped in this mirror.

Any normal person- any person that wasn't the strongest of will- would have killed the prince without hesitation. He grinned to himself as the huntsman got away with it. Where was the prince now? If he was smart, hopefully getting help from the other kingdom.

Once the man had left unsteadily on his feet, Dante placed the box on the arm of his throne and got up with a sinister grin. Logan held his breath, praying that Dante wouldn't ask the question that would give them away. "Logan dear," he trilled, "Seems our prince won't be a problem anymore." He gave a sharp, piercing cackle, and when he had cooled down, he trailed his finger along the rim of the mirror. Logan shivered.

And right when Logan thought he would ask, Dante sighed and walked away, plopping idly down onto the throne in deep thought. He let out the breath he'd been holding.

It wasn't until several minutes later that he asked the question, actually, and although Logan dreaded giving the answer, the prince had at least gotten a head start. The same corrupted question that Logan hardly listened to, the tug of having to answer, and the wincing newer reply of "Prince Virgil." At this point he was going through the motions: not really living life. Yet something about what the huntsman had done - if not the huntsman himself - sparked something in Logan that he hadn't felt in a while. He yearned to escape for the first time in years. He longed to live again.

He sighed as Dante twitched, uttering, "What?" He began rapping the fingers of one hand against the arm of the throne while simultaneously squeezing and un-squeezing the other, the black leather gloves he'd recently attained rubbing together.

"Be more specific," he droned. Logan was the only one allowed to be blunt or sarcastic with Dante, though sometimes he tested his patience. He couldn't count how many times he was a breath away from being shattered.

"How is it possible for the prince to still be the fairest of them all?" he forced impatiently. Logan didn't exactly understand his obsession with this question.

"Compassion." A part of him knew that wasn't the answer the king wanted, but that was the answer he supplied.

Dante let out a sigh that turned into a growl of frustration, his fists clenching. Logan could tell that he wanted to shatter him, wanted to break him to pieces and make him feel as every shard of him was cracked. But he didn't. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep, groaning breath, shutting his eyes tightly, and when he opened his eyes, Logan saw more of the monster that he had witnessed Dante slowly turning into. Less of the man that he had once been.

"Does the prince live?" he asked evenly, chilling anger coating his voice as he slowly stood from the throne and stalked forward. 

Ah, there it was. Logan had no choice but to respond, no matter how much he wanted to fight against it. He felt the tugging of the answer, prompting the word from his mouth before he had even a sliver of a chance of attempting to lie. "Yes." He hated the fact that he wasn't able to give Dante any answers aside from the full truth. How he longed for the chance to tell him the same lie the hunter had told him, that the prince was dead. All of this could have been avoided, truly, if he had just been able to lie.

Dante reeled his fist back, and Logan flinched inwardly, feeling already the shattering blow that was coming to him. At the last moment, however, Dante clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and yelled for a guard. The door to the throne room opened and a guard poked his head inside.

"Get me the hunter," he growled, his face icily calm.

Logan's gut twisted. No, no, no. They were going to kill him... he'd only refused murder and yet they were going to kill him. He paced as best as a human conscious inside a mirror could, fiddling with imaginary clothes, and calculating all possible outcomes. It wasn't fair that he knew the answer to every question... Every single question except his own, and nobody ever seemed to ask the right thing.

What could Logan do? He was stuck. Constantly and horribly stuck. He grew more and more frantic as the frail blonde was dragged in kicking and protesting for his very life. He knew exactly what he'd done... he knew the consequences and yet he still spared the prince.

Dante took one hard look at the sniveling man. The tear tracks of despair running down his face, the way he weakly struggled... all so amusing. But there was something else in his eyes- something that made the king infuriated- and that was resolution. The pathetic huntsman was resolute. It was defiance in its worst form, and among the many things Dante hated, defiance was high up on the list.

"Kill him," he hissed to the guards. He didn't need him any longer, for Logan could give him all the answers he needed, and he was sure he could get someone else to hunt for the village.

Logan's mind became harder than his prison, two answers- questions, rather- becoming apparent. He could tell the huntsman to ask him either: 'how do I escape?' or 'what will happen if the guards go through with killing me?' He figured the answer to the first one may not be helpful, so he decided to go with the one that would plant seeds of doubt into the guards' minds, leaving the king with no minions to carry out his orders.

And for the first time since being trapped in this mirror, Logan allowed himself to be seen by anyone other than Dante... or Virgil. He knew he risked being shattered for this, but he had to do _something_ ; he had to help the hunter. "Stop!" He cried out before the guards fully withdrew their swords. They were going to kill him right there in the throne room - for the king needed to see it to believe it - and something about that twisted Logan's stomach painfully.

All eyes in the room swiveled towards him and where Dante's were full of a fiery fury, the hunter's and the guards' were brimming with curiosity. The hunter's resolute, panicked gaze broke and from the look on his face, Logan could tell that his mind was racing.

"What are you?" It was one of the guards who spoke, and the answer was out of Logan's mouth before his mind fully grasped the question.

"I am a human consciousness trapped within the confines of a mirror." He didn't explain. He never had to explain. If anyone were to ask for an explanation, he would give one - not that he had a choice - but Dante never asked for one. And neither did the guards. Logan didn't care, for his eyes were locked with the hunter's. They were so much bluer when they were looking at him directly, and it took Logan a second to recall what he was going to say. "Ask me what will happen if the guards go through with killing you."   
"What?" Patton's voice was strained, his brows pulling together.

"You'll have to be more specific." Logan winced inwardly at the answer his question prompted. He, of course, knew what he needed. Knew what he was asking. Dante approached the mirror once more, fist raised to shatter him, and Logan repeated himself, desperation tinging his usually calm, even voice. "Hunter, ask me what will happen if the guards kill you!"

"What will happen if the guards kill me?" Patton didn't understand why he was asking, or why this strange mirror-man needed him to ask instead of just giving him the information, but his heart ached at the desperation in his voice. When Dante swung his fist forward to shatter the mirror, Patton surged to his feet, breaking free of the guards' hold, and caught the king's arm before his fist could connect. He kept his eyes on the king, but he repeated, "Mirror, what will happen if the guards kill me?"

His image disappeared, a prophecy of destruction and terror spreading across the kingdom in its wake. Logan had guessed this to be the answer, but he didn't know it would be this horrible. There were screams and thatched roofs on fire and poverty and the overthrowing of the next kingdom over and thick black smoke and twisted magic, and at the center of it all was Dante with Logan by his side. Except he wasn't himself... he was as blackened at heart as the king, and his freedom and the way Dante touched him no longer looked like something he wanted. He'd rather be free of mind than free of body.

All of this because of the death of one good-hearted huntsman.

The images tore through his very being and it _hurt_. It burned and broke inside of him, feeling as though the surface of his glass was shattering with each image and sound that came from him. There was so much pain and fear, and Logan felt it all. And for the first time in his life, Logan let out a guttural scream. It bounced off of every gem, every wall, every piece of metal in the room. Make it stop, make it stop, make it **_stop_**. He told Patton to ask too open-ended of a question and now it wouldn't stop unless someone told him to... he couldn't stop it.

"Stop!" Patton yelled, sobbing. He still miraculously gripped the king's arm, unharmed.

Logan's reflection went black, hiding from the outside world. He fell to his hands and knees, shaking and gasping for breath in his realm. Once he had gathered himself, he peeked an eye open to observe without being seen. And what he saw surprised him.

Dante looked guilty for the first time since he had gotten into dark magic. Unfortunately his guilt was not for the destroyed kingdom, but that there was a chance to free Logan and he'd nearly shattered him... Not only that, but he'd caused his Logan to scream; to hurt. How did he stray so far from his original mission?

All around Logan it was dark and endless, something that had been lonely and terrifying at first, but now it just calmed him. It was this or the world he'd just seen, and he much preferred this. But he couldn't withdraw completely just yet. He still had to protect the huntsman, to see what Dante would do...

The guards were frozen, confusion and terror written across their faces as they turned their heads to look at their king. Patton had released Dante's arm in the time that Logan had had his eyes closed, and he looked like he was going to be sick. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his jaw was clenched, his breath trembling. Logan found himself wishing he had hands to dry that face that was too soft for saltwater to be carving tracks down it.

"Sire," one of the guards said after a moment. Dante wrenched his gaze from Logan to look at the guards. "With all due respect, your Majesty, we refuse to kill the hunter if those are to be the consequences."

Logan breathed a sigh of relief when Patton turned to the guards, his blue eyes wide in his surprise. He was going to live. Well, if the king didn't decide to just kill him himself. As soon as the thought popped into his head, Logan realized with horror that that was incredibly likely. All it would take would be for the king to snap his fingers, or wave a hand, and the dark magic that coursed through him would be enough to stop Patton's heart without a moment's pause. The future that his surface had shown wasn't off the table just yet.

"Hunter," Logan said after a moment. He could see Dante plotting already, the ideas forming in his eyes. Patton spun around again, turning to Logan. "Run."

Patton acted nearly immediately, running from the throne room as the weight of Logan's order hit him. The heavy door of the throne room slammed shut behind him with finality, and Logan allowed relief to course through him, knowing that he was safe. Dante sighed heavily through his nose, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning angrily.

"Guards, leave us." He waved his hand, and the guards disappeared in a spiral of golden smoke. Their memories would have to be wiped after seeing Logan... It wasn't like it was the first time, and he would've killed that hunter himself... would have killed them all if not for the price of directly killing someone with magic always had. He couldn't risk any more prices after what killing his wife had done.

Practically trembling in his rage, he sank down into his throne, gripping the armrests with an iron grip that turned his knuckles white underneath his gloves. He was too enraged by Logan's treason to ask any more questions at the moment. It was a long while before he spoke again, and when he did, his tone was cold enough to bring frost to Logan's glass.

"I suppose I'll just have to kill the prince myself."


	6. Royal Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Virgil get to know each other over soup.

After rolling up Virgil's sleeves and making a few make-shift adjustments - ingeniously using a thin rope to keep the pants from falling - Roman brought him downstairs to make dinner for the both of them.

He'd have to go to the market again soon to keep up with the doubling of portions, but it wasn't like he couldn't afford it. The mines were rich in gems, and being one of the very few who worked there- let alone knew about it - he was receiving a good pay. Though he tried to keep as much of it saved away as possible so he could afford to one day either upgrade his cabin or buy an entirely new place. With how things had been going, Roman was beginning to think it would never happen. He was too easily recognizable and would never have the energy or resources to do it by himself. So he'd remain a humble miner with enough gems and gold to buy a large property.

It was a strange world they lived in.

As he cooked, he hummed some long-forgotten tune that was frequently played in the court as a child, back when he was just a boy and nothing much was expected of him. It had been hard at first to learn how to cook - the rig for putting a pot over a fire was something a prince was never taught - but he'd... befriended the town's baker's son back when he'd first ran away. He had lost a lot of weight then. Never knowing how to do anything, working himself to near-death every day just to get a stable life where he was now... If he could call this _stable_.

He looked over his shoulder at Virgil, curled up on the couch, watching him silently. He wondered if he was always this quiet or if it was a result of his trauma mixed with Roman being a stranger. Probably both. "What did you do for fun around the castle?" he piped up to cut the silence between them.

Roman was still a bit embarrassed at how he'd abandoned his self-control earlier, practically proposing to Virgil as he bandaged his hands. Because, let's face it, living together forever was basically marriage minus the romance part, he supposed. Roman didn't think there were many people like him, other than the baker's son. But he could dream.

"I tended my roses, and fed the animals who wandered into my courtyard from the forest." Virgil didn't know that he could exactly call feeding the animals _fun_ \- it was just something that he did in order to befriend them so he didn't feel so lonely - but that was all he ever did.

He'd spent his days in the courtyard or in the palace's library reading through novels he'd long since finished. And he'd spent his nights curled up in front of the fireplace in his chambers, folded in on himself as he stared into the flames, lonely nostalgia washing over him until he was tired enough to crawl into bed. He didn't sleep much. He hadn't since his mother's death, the dark cruelness of the king seeping through every inch of the palace, chilling everything and bringing him to perpetually feel as though he was being watched. He tried to pretend as though everything was fine, but the dark circles underneath his eyes were impossible to hide.

"You had roses?"

He nodded, though he knew Roman couldn't see him, being turned away from him as he chopped vegetables to go into the pot. He fell silent again and simply watched Roman as he prepared supper, cautious curiosity creeping into his eyes. Soon enough, the small cabin was filled with the smells of whatever Roman was cooking, the pot over the fire bubbling gently, and Virgil closed his eyes, breathing it in.

The cabin was so much warmer than the palace, and though he knew that he wasn't entirely clear of the dangers of the king, Virgil relaxed for the first time in ages. His head slowly tilted forward as sleep threatened to claim him, and when it fell completely forward, he jolted awake, confusion flitting across his face.

Why was he more comfortable here than he was in the place he had called home his entire life? Why was he more comfortable with this stranger in the middle of the woods than he was in the guarded palace?

Roman spooned the food into two separate bowls when it was finished, and he brought one to Virgil, taking a seat with him on the couch. He kept as much distance between them as he possibly could, not wanting to intrude on his space - he looked so hesitant and nearly frightened, curled up in the corner of the couch as if he was trying to take up as little space as he could.

"It's nothing special," Roman said after a moment, swallowing a bite of the hastily-made soup. "I'll head to the market tomorrow and get some better ingredients."

Virgil nodded slowly, going to sip at the soup. He couldn't help but briefly be paranoid it was poisoned because of the attempt on his life today. It seemed too easy that he'd just found a place to live with the perfect boy, right in the middle of the woods. The warm broth with different textures contained within yielded nothing but flavor and something else he couldn't quite place, but he knew it made him happy, and it was far better than anything the kitchen had ever made (no offense to the castle cooks).

"This is amazing," he commented, then added after a pause, "Thank you." When he brought his eyes up to Roman's face, his eyes were soft and crinkled at the edges.

Apparently his soup was worthy enough for a prince, well... a prince other than himself. Roman couldn't help but smile at him, small and sheepish as he practically scarfed down the bowl, and he was sure he _would've_ scarfed it if he didn't seem so conscious of Roman. It was cute— funny. It was definitely funny. He hoped the steam from his bowl was a good enough excuse for his red cheeks, going back to eating.

"You said it was a long story?" Virgil prompted after the break of silence.

It took Roman a moment to realize what he meant. He'd been so caught up in Virgil sitting before him that he had nearly forgotten the conversation they'd had merely an hour ago. He wanted to know his story. How was he supposed to tell him everything that he had done, everything that had happened to him, without offending him in some way.

He let out a soft sigh, finishing his bowl of soup and reaching for Virgil's, noticing it was empty. "Would you like seconds?" he asked gently. He knew very well that he was changing the subject, but it was only to give himself time to think of a proper response. Virgil nodded sheepishly, and Roman moved to the pot again, filling both of their bowls in silence.

What _was_ he supposed to say? He couldn't just tell him that he had run away from his home because he didn't want to sit and be a prince. Not after what Virgil had been through. And he didn't know or trust him enough to tell him why the prospect of marrying a princess irked him so badly. But he had to say _something_.

He finished filling the bowls and brought them back to the couch, handing Virgil's to him. Virgil watched him quietly, waiting for him to say anything. A part of him wondered if Roman was purposely avoiding answering, if he simply didn't want to answer. He understood if he didn't - Virgil wasn't about to tell Roman his entire life story - but a part of him needed to know more about the stranger he was going to be living with.

So he waited.

"There was..." Roman paused, still mulling over the words is his head. "There was a lot that was expected of me back home. I was supposed to take care of a lot of people, and I was supposed to marry this girl. You know, tie our families together. But I didn't love her; I don't think I could have loved her if I tried. And I know marriage isn't always about love... okay, it's hardly ever about love... but I don't think I could have even _suffered_ through that marriage. There was nothing wrong with her - she was great: pretty, smart, funny - but she was, uh... I just don't think I could have done it."

Virgil nodded in acknowledgment, urging Roman to continue. He didn't think he himself would have liked being married off to a princess, though it's not like he'd ever been around anyone his age... other than Roman, that was. What was love supposed to feel like? Was he supposed to want girls? He'd gotten that conception from literature and the other patronly examples in his life, but he'd never really longed for it himself. Illustrations of nude women never really piqued his interest, whereas poets and playwrights could write entire books about them.

The only remotely interesting thing had been the muscular farm boys... Maybe that was just admiration for his own gender though. He wasn't sure. Regardless, he should be listening to Roman and not questioning his love life in the middle of a serious conversation.

"Anyways, my brother took over for me in my responsibilities for the most part. He knew that I didn't particularly like them, and he was always eager for a bigger role in our family. He covered for me at my wedding, and I took off. I found this place here, and I've been here since," he finished somewhat lamely. Without all the small details, his story wasn't as long as he had claimed, but he couldn't exactly give him all the details. He wouldn't understand. He would think Roman was just a spoiled brat who'd run away from home because being a prince wasn't good enough for him. His other reason had been that Virgil might have been sent by his father, but he didn't really think that was likely anymore.

Virgil raised an eyebrow at him. He was obviously leaving out most of the story, which would make it actually make sense. He may have grown up alone, but he wasn't stupid and he could put two and two together. The first detail was the way Roman carried himself; it was signature, a specific walk that commonfolk didn't posses. The second piece of evidence was the way he talked about it: uniting two families, responsibility, forced marriage...

"Cut the tomfoolery," he stated bluntly. "You're obviously some sort of royalty. I'm not _that_ stupid." He waved his hand around, feeling a bit more comfortable to be short with him now that they were at least acquainted. Don't get him wrong— he'd be short with anyone— but they either had to be a stranger or someone he'd gotten to know. There was a middle ground in which he'd _try_ to be nice.

Roman's tongue tripped in his mouth and he went red, at a loss for being called out. How did he know? Was he really that obvious? The thought made him chuckle without really smiling. "You heard of the kingdom Eloria? Right next to what I believe yours is— you never really said..."

Virgil hesitantly nodded his head, the name and direction it lay in familiar to him, but since he wasn't around a lot of folk, he wasn't well-informed. Any diplomatic going-ons were left to the king and his advisors. He waited patiently for what Roman would say next, his interest caught, and he hoped that the "miner" would tell him what he wanted to hear.

"I— My twin and I— We're the princes...?" Roman ended on a high note that made it sound like a question, wincing as he waited for a reaction. "I'm a prince," he reiterated, firmer this time.

Virgil's eyes widened slightly. He had suspected - _known_ \- that he was royalty of some sort, but he wouldn't have guessed in a million years that he was that high up. A duke, maybe, or an earl. But not a prince. He sifted through the information in his mind on Eloria. He hadn't heard too much about it, but in his studies and his reading in the palace library, he was certain he had to have learned _something_. After a moment or two of silent contemplation, he spoke up again. "You were supposed to marry the princess of Valdrin, weren't you?"

Roman would have been lying if he said he wasn't surprised at the fact that Virgil knew anything about him. His kingdom - if he could call it his anymore - was a small one. He nodded. "My brother married her in my place, I believe.."

"Did you really leave because you didn't want the responsibilities and to marry her?" Where he understood not wanting to marry a princess, he didn't quite see why that was a big enough reason to run away from home.

He nodded. A part of him wanted to tell Virgil more, to explain why marrying her was such a big deal, but that voice was small, and there was a much bigger, much louder voice that boomed over that one, telling him that if he said so much as a word about that, Virgil would leave. "But I'm glad you found me," he said sincerely while simultaneously changing the subject. "I had the worst time trying to survive all while in hiding without any knowledge of the simplest things... And even then, I had taken some money and rations with me. They really should teach princes to be independent. Like what if they get stranded? It's not a smart business practice," he went off on a side-tangent.

Virgil chuckled softly. The smile that tugged at the corners of his lips as he rolled his eyes was small, but it brought pause to Roman's words, his voice trailing off. Virgil bit the inside of his cheek, quickly getting rid of his smile, and he got to his feet, taking his empty bowl to the kitchen.

"Most princes don't typically go anywhere without their advisors, or a guard or two," he noted as he came back to the main room, sitting once more on the couch. He couldn't say too much, however, as he himself had gone into the forest without an advisor or a guard.

Roman wondered why he'd stopped smiling. It was possibly the most exquisite thing he'd ever seen, and he couldn't deny the heat in his cheeks. How was this prince - who'd just stumbled here through a forest and taken a nap - so... so perfect? "Yeah, but what if they get killed and not the prince?" he theorized. "Like you. Did they get your guards in the attempt or did you flee before anything happened?" He realized it probably hadn't been a good idea to bring that up after he'd said it.

Virgil shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his arm. "The guards didn't come. There... There was a hunter who came out to my courtyard and said that the king told him to take me into the forest to gather mushrooms and herbs."

"And the guards didn't come along?" He couldn't imagine palace guards allowing a prince to go outside the walls without a royal escort.

Virgil shook his head, shrugging at the same time. "I suppose Dante told them not to. They can't exactly question his _royal highness_." He fought the urge to spit the title, though venom seeped into his tone nonetheless.

He didn't want to push it, but he just had to know. This form of assassination was far worse than an ambush; more personal in a way that saddened him deeply. "What... What happened after that?"

Virgil sighed, clenching his jaw. "He— he took me to the middle of the woods, and as I was gathering the mushrooms, he dropped the dagger because he couldn't bring himself to do it. I could've died, and I would've never suspected it... He told me to run- Patton, I think his name was- that the king wanted me dead, and he kept apologizing. Strangest huntsman I've ever met..." he ended with less anger, and more leaning towards the deflated side.

Roman hated to see the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes held an emotion far stronger than tears. So without really thinking much, he slid his hand into the fair one's with an assuring squeeze. His doe-like eyes widened, looking into his face with meek surprise, and Roman got to witness- for the first time- that pale complexion go pink. "You have my most sincere condolences. And I swear to you that I will make sure you're safe here, and that you will never have to be alone again if you so wish," he pledged.

Confusion flooded Virgil at the flipping of his stomach at the other's words and the hand in his. He carefully withdrew his hand from Roman's, looking down and away from him, and nodded. "Thank you." His words sounded small and hesitant in his own ears, and he inwardly flinched against it. "I... I should get some sleep. I don't suppose there's another bedroom?"

"No, there's just the one, but you can have the bed," Roman said gently. He hoped he hadn't made Virgil feel awkward or strange from the contact or the offer.

"What? No, that's your bed. I can sleep here on the couch." Why was he being so kind to him?

Roman just shook his head, far too chivalrous for his own good. "You've had a long day. I'm not making a guest sleep on the couch, prince or not," he insisted.

He paused only a minute before nodding. He had to admit that the prospect of sleeping on the couch that was even more uncomfortable than the bed wasn't exactly appealing, and if Roman was going to insist...

He got to his feet and climbed the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder to look to Roman when he was about halfway up. "Good night, Roman."

"Good night, Virgil."


	7. Dreams of a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Logan and Dante's rocky past.

Dante was a young, bright boy with an equally bright best friend. As the youngest brother of three, he didn't really get paid attention to much, so he was free to do as he pleased without judgment. And he did just that. His first major act of rebellion had been none other than the innocent befriending of the royal tutor's son.

They hit it off instantly after their first meeting at the age of six. Since then, they'd been inseparable, the prince crying nearly every time Logan had to go home. Sometimes he'd even try to hide him in his room, but they always ended up finding the dark-haired boy. It was obvious to Dante's kind mother that they were going to be trouble.

As kids, nobody thought much of it. 'Boys will be boys', they said. But that wasn't at all the case when he got older- when something between him and the tutor's son shifted. How it had shifted, exactly, would be revealed on quite an average day in fact.

***

_"Dante! I brought a frog to dissect," he announced, greeting his friend and slapping the freshly poisoned reptile on their 'work table'. In reality, it was nothing more than a large, flat stone in the courtyard where they frequently did what Logan called 'experiments'._

_Dante smiled brightly, endeared by Logan's wicked craving for knowledge that rivalled only his own. Nobody was quite like him— nobody was anywhere **near** his Logan (his brothers, the only people in the castle their age, were both stupid). "Perfect," he cooed, marveling over the slimy greenish thing, the tip of one finger ghosting over the dark spots along its body. _

_He was so elated he could— he grabbed Logan by his shirt on pure impulse and let their lips meet. Logan's eyes widened, and he stiffened against Dante, who instantly feared in that moment that he'd just lost his only friend because of a stupid k— Logan let his eyes slip closed, relaxing and pulling Dante closer. Okay so maybe it wasn't a stupid kiss..._

***

The two boys grew closer and closer as the years dragged on, risking secret touches in corridors and kisses in moments when the tutor - Logan's father - wasn't looking. Dante knew that if his parents, or Logan's for that matter, ever found out about their actions, they would be torn apart, never to see each other again. And that was simply the best case scenario. More likely, Dante's father would have Logan banished from the kingdom. Or worse.

So they kept their actions hidden. Sure, there were moments in which Dante wished for more - wished for the opportunity to take his friend's hand when he was ignored in favor of his brothers or to spin him around the ballroom when he'd passed the final examinations for his tutoring - but he knew better than to act on those wishes.

He had to make sure there was no chance of them being caught.

***

_"Logan?" Dante mused softly as the two of them laid on his bedroom floor, looking up through the glass skylight. The two young teens had managed to convince their parents to let Logan spend the night, but they weren't quite comfortable enough to lay in Dante's bed just yet. That seemed too... intimate. Logan's head laid on the curve where his shoulder met his arm, and Dante trailed his fingers along his friend's arm with a feathery touch that he knew Logan absolutely melted under._

_"Yes, Dante?" His voice was steady, as always, but soft - hardly more than a breath._

_"Do you ever think about running away?"_

_"Do you?"_

_He nodded. "Sometimes. Everything would be a lot easier if we were somewhere we could be together."_

_Logan looked up to him, his sapphire blue eyes reflecting the starlight that shone through the glass. Dante could get lost in those eyes - and he frequently had, simply staring into them for hours on end. "Perhaps you just have to make a place like that for us yourself. If you found a way to somehow gain power over a kingdom or duchy, we would be able to be together."_

_Dante didn't know how he would go about doing that, but if it meant he could be with Logan - his Logan - he would look into it. He would do anything he could._

_"Logan?" he hummed again after a minute of silence passed between the two._

_"Dante." There was a note of amusement to Logan's voice that was so rare, but always welcome._

_"I think I love you."_

_"I think I love you, too."_

***

But as Dante came of age, his authority figures no longer deemed it appropriate for him to be spending so much time with a mere tutor's son. That didn't stop them any, but it did give him a lot more free time where he was bored out of his mind and too curious to **not** explore. Which was how he found out his mother was a witch. Of course, he wasn't angry or suspicious like everyone else in the godforsaken kingdom, he was brimming with curiosity. Suddenly mundane knowledge seemed so trivial, and he decided that all he wanted to learn was the ways of his mother's magic, so she began teaching him, although hesitant to do so.

This was the one secret in all the land that he ever kept from Logan. And even then, he didn't keep it for long. The second he could raise a pebble without speaking, he snuck out to Logan's house to get him to come to the woods with him. It wasn't the first time Dante had pulled him away in the middle of the night or vise versa, so he happily tagged along.

***

_"Look what I can do... And please just trust me and don't freak out. Think of it as a... different sort of knowledge," he convinced, waving his hands about. He spoke fairly quickly in his excitement, yet still managed to enunciate every word with the careful infliction that told so clearly of his royal lineage._

_Logan simply nodded, trusting the prince in everything, and open-minded to anything. He would always say, 'Well, they said two men being together was bad, and they were wrong about that.' And Dante agreed._

_He took a breath, making sure Logan was sitting comfortably on a log, then strained to lift a leaf to the air. Once he got it, he effortlessly made it do loops. The dark-haired boy watched with a shock that quickly turned to wonder. "How are you doing that?" he breathed out. The moonlight hit his face just right, making Dante fall for him all the more._

_"Magic. My mother is a witch. She taught me," he replied with a relieved smile. He knew he could count on his nerd. He flicked his wrist to make the leaf do circles around a wide-eyed Logan, who giggled in response, making his heart flutter more than the leaf. The effort was exhausting him, but it was worth it to see his companion smile._

_"That's incredible..." he whispered. Dante promptly dropped the leaf, faltering. "Dee?" Logan carefully voiced his concern, his face falling from the bright wondrous glow about him._

_He smirked wickedly. "Sorry. I'm still beginning," he told him, moving to flop down beside him with heavy breathing._

_Logan just shook his head, lips tilting upward again. "I think it's amazing," he mentioned. Then he cupped his right cheek like he always did, and kissed him._

_He broke away with a hum. "I think **you're** amazing."_

***

Over the course of a few years, Dante all but abandoned his traditional studies, focusing his energy and time on the magic that his mother taught him to harness. He practiced in the woods most nights well past curfew, and occasionally, Logan would come with him. He never showed any interest in learning magic himself, but he always brought his notepad with him, taking note of new tricks that Dante learned.

When Dante got closer to marrying age- both of his brothers had already found wives- his father took to planning balls for him in order to find an eligible bride. He disliked all of the women brought in for the balls, finding himself daydreaming instead of his Logan, wishing he were there dancing with him instead of this woman who kept accidentally stepping on his toes.

Logan would never step on his toes. Dante had taught him how to dance on one of the nights they'd spent together before their parents stopped letting Logan sleep over.

Dante had spent years mulling over Logan's idea for him to somehow gain power and make a place just for them. If he were able to marry a woman of higher status than him, he could use his magic to get rid of her somehow - without leaving a trace - and he would be with Logan.

***

_"Logan!" he chimed as he rushed to meet him in the woods. He had sent word to him earlier that day by way of carrier pigeon to meet him there. He didn't want to wait any longer than he had to to tell him the news._

_The dark haired boy looked up from his notepad when Dante appeared from between the trees. Curiosity sparked in his eyes when he saw the state of the other and the excitement that was written so cleanly across his face. "What happened?"_

_"The King of Reishel is dead." He knew he shouldn't have sounded as excited about this as he did, but he couldn't help it. Seeing Logan's curiosity turn quickly to confusion, he continued. "The Queen will be looking for a new husband in a year when her mourning period is over. I could be King, Logan. I can make us a place of our own to be together. We won't have to hide anymore."_

_He didn't quite understand the way Logan's shoulders slumped ever so slightly at his words, too caught up in the fact that everything was coming together. His plans for their future raced through his mind and he found himself rambling about them before he could stop himself._

_They were going to be together._

***

Over the next few months, Dante had completely forgot all about the queen, for he wouldn't have to worry about her for another year. Though he had often consulted Logan in the beginning on plans for how their kingdom should be run, ways to win the queen's hand, any other sort of things that would go into building this. Logan was much smarter than him anyways. He was too distracted to really notice the way Logan's smile didn't reach his eyes or how he would go stiff and quiet when they talked about it.

***

_"She has a baby, you know. A son," Logan spoke up one day. None of what Dante was talking about would work. The mere idea had been the fantasies of a frustrated child, and he had since recognized that it could never possibly work. The kingdom would never accept them; they'd be assassinated. There'd be treason and mockery and Logan didn't really want to know what it felt like to be poisoned. The way his Dante spoke of it, however, made it hurt too much to tell him that this dream would never be their perfect reality._

_"What? No... I didn't. But that's fine. Wouldn't it be nice to have a baby in the palace? I mean, I know he wouldn't be ours, but still," he had paused in questioning only to happily pipe back up again._

_He sighed, finally at his breaking point. "Dante stop," he snapped, "It's just a dream. It'll never work."_

_His eyes lost some of their brightness, gaining a fiery determination instead. "Yes it will," he insisted gently. He took Logan's hand and kissed his fingertips from where they lay before a brook, the autumn leaves colorfully dead beneath them._

_His head turned to look at the blonde bangs falling cutely to one side of his face. "We'd be killed. Poisoned by even the kitchen staff if anyone found out," he reminded._

_He opened his mouth to protest, but Logan had already started on the reasons this would fail, and he wasn't stopping until he'd said everything on his mind that had built up over the months._

_"And what about the queen? You can't just wish her away. You can't kill her. She's a person; she has a son." His love looked deeply hurt by this, but still, he continued. "It's not going to happen, my love. This is as good as we'll ever get."_

_"You can't be so sure. What if it **does** work out? There's still that chance," he pleaded. Logan just shook his head, looking up at the blue against red leaves disdainfully. "There has to be a way to make it work. Come on, Logan, think."_

_He bit his tongue. "I'm sorry. I... I don't have all the answers." With that, he decided to get up. This was breaking his heart and he couldn't handle the way the weight of their broken dreams crushed him under the sun. He brushed the dry leaves off his clothes, walking up the incline. He heard shifting behind him._

_"Lo? Where are you going?"_

_"Home."_

***

Dante had sat there in thought for hours, a tad lonely at how the place beside him was void of life. He knew Logan was right... he just— He didn't know what he thought, actually. He got up with a sigh when the silence grew too loud in his ears and his mind felt sick from all his pondering. However, it was what he did when he got back to the castle that would change it all, that would cause many deaths and ruin countless lives; blacken a soul.

This was what would be the beginning of the end of Dante. 


	8. Deerly Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil spends the day alone and Roman returns home from work to find a lovely scene.

Roman had been highly reluctant to leave Virgil to go to work, for he feared that someone might come after him while he was away and he wouldn't be able to protect him. After the incredibly sarcastic prince assured him it was okay, and to watch for the birds on the skyline because their flight would tell of trouble, he agreed to go. Though he made sure to take an early day so he could stop by the market and still be home in the afternoon.

Once Roman was gone, Virgil set to work cleaning the house once more. He hadn't managed to get everything done before he'd been too exhausted to do any more, and he was determined to repay the other in some small way for allowing him to stay there. He dusted and swept and wiped down counters until around midday when his stomach was yelling at him to eat something.

The cupboards were nearly empty but for half a loaf of bread, a bag of carrots, and a bag of oats. It was nowhere even close to the extravagant meals the palace cooks would make for him, or even comparable to the home-cooked meal Roman had made for him last night, but he would have to make do with what he had. He had never learned how to cook, had always had the cooks around to make his meals, but he supposed he had to learn how to feed himself at some point.

He grabbed the oats and a carrot from the bag before stepping outside. The fresh air instantly calmed him, flooding him with a sense of relief that years of only finding peace in the outdoors could give him. He found a tree thick at the base, caving inward a little to where it was perfect for sitting, and plopped down.

Up ahead sat a log surrounded by thorn vines, a small animal path trailing to a hole dug beneath it. He watched as a rabbit peeked its head up from the hole. It was only there for a moment before it disappeared, having spotted him. Then when it was sure he was safe, it observed Virgil again, seeing that he had food and was not just any human, but the prince himself. He smiled a little at it, staying absolutely still.

During this stand-off, Virgil's favorite bird had joined the branches above him. It watched him for a moment. They were probably more wary of him now that he wore different clothes and stayed in an unfamiliar place. The bird in question- a large, bright blue thing- swept down and landed in his hair, curious of the oats. He giggled a little at the sensation of its small talons in his hair, and lifted the bag for it to eat from. He supposed his stomach would have to wait until the other prince returned from the market.

The rabbit, seeing his gentleness with the bird, approached slowly, only hopping forward once every few seconds, its nose twitching towards both Virgil and the carrot. Soon enough even a young buck, with only the faintest of nubs on his head, stood at a distance to watch them. The small furry creature got close enough with a last jump, hesitantly taking a nip at the carrot. In no time it was fully gnawing at it, though it made very little progress because of its size.

Virgil couldn't believe his luck. Usually he only attracted small things, having to wait all day for them to even consider approaching. He grinned to himself, the occasional oat dropping into his lap, and listened to the strange noises of the chewing rabbit. At last, the buck decided to walk forward, fully arriving to sniff at him out of sheer curiosity. Virgil's heart raced. The rabbit ran off, spooked by the deer, and the large thing jumped back in fright at its darting. It recovered, however, breath loud and completely picking at his clothes, and began licking him unabashedly. He bit his tongue to force down the giddy laugh playing at his stomach so he didn't scare it. This was insane! Having discovered the carrot, the deer quickly bit it, making the whole thing disappear within seconds.

Once the carrot was gone, Virgil lowered the bag of oats to grab a small handful of them. He moved slowly, careful not to spook the deer, and when the bird in his hair fluttered its wings, chasing the bag of oats as it was lowered with its beak, the deer backed up. The creature recovered after only a moment and approached once more as Virgil held out a palmful of the oats, raising the bag again to allow the bird to continue eating.

The deer's wet nose snuffled at his hand and it flinched backwards when Virgil's fingers instinctively twitched at the feeling of its nose. After only a second more, it came forward again and began eating the oats from his palm. By this point, a few more birds had landed near him, curious about the food and the gentle human in their forest. These ones were much smaller than the one atop his head, and they didn't approach him right away, simply watched.

Roman returned with a large pack on his back and one at his side, filled with things from the market. He hadn't only gotten food - considering that Virgil didn't have clothes of his own that fit, he had bought him a pair, having to guess at his size taking into account how big his own clothes were on the smaller prince. He had barely approached the bend in the path leading straight to the front of his house when rustling caught his attention. His footfall lightened and slowed.

There, just a few yards into the woods, sat Virgil with a young deer eating from his hand and birds flocking him. A face brighter with more pure joy than he'd ever seen and gentleness radiating off of him made Roman's heart run too far ahead to catch up. He froze, swallowing.

Virgil was _giggling_. This boy had glee and beauty flowing off him in waves, and Roman could've died right there on the spot, happy, having seen a wonder of the world. Instead of dying, however, he positioned his body behind a tree, head poking out just a little so he could observe such a lovely view without frightening Virgil— or the animals for that matter.

His dark eyes that had been so filled with resentment and anguish last night were crinkled with mirth, watching the deer fondly. How had he gained its trust? After thinking about it for a moment, Roman knew it wasn't that hard to see how. His black hair was slightly tousled, a bird nearly as exquisite as the dark prince himself roosting in it to feed off the oats he was offering. If only he knew that the boy was like him (or the baker's son), he'd sweep him off his feet right now.

But nobody was like him.

Still— he could dream of the vaguely angry prince. Twirling him around the living room in a dance they were both raised to know, letting him teach him how to handle animals and tend roses, teaching him how to cook. His mind ran wild watching such a rare and addictingly pretty scene, and that's when he realized...

He had fallen.

He'd never really known this before. He'd read about it, sure. He'd seen it in performances, yes. (Never were they about boys, always about women this and women that.) But he'd never— not even close— come to feel this bursting need for someone's affections.

It was incredible.


	9. Into the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante just wants their dreams to become a reality, but what he gets instead will ruin their lives.

After Logan's break-down in which he told Dante that their dream was just that - a _dream_ , never to be fulfilled - Dante made it his life's goal to have it become reality. He worked and studied and practiced the magic his mother taught him and he hunted for any possible way he could make everything fall together.

It was when he came across a dusty, leather-bound book on a high shelf in his mother's study that he realized there was more to the magic he knew than just the simple levitation and potions he had become so practiced in. As he tucked himself away in the corners of his room, away from any prying eyes should anyone walk in, Dante flipped through the pages of the stolen book. The spells that laid in those pages were nothing like anything he had ever seen before, the words written in jagged ink and half of them were in a foreign language. It took some time, but eventually, Dante was able to decipher the book, and what he learned from it made his skin crawl - whether from excitement, fear, or fascination, he wasn't entirely certain.

***

_"Dante..." Worry worked its way into Logan's voice as he sat in the grass with the prince. "Are you sure everything is okay? You haven't spoken the entire time we've been here."_

_He nodded, closing the book in his lap and looking to Logan. After their argument, the two had spent over a week in which they hadn't seen each other or sent any correspondence, and there was so much that Dante had to tell the other, but he wasn't sure how best to begin._

_"I need to show you something, Logan, dear, and I need you to keep calm." Well **that** probably wasn't the best way to begin. _

_Logan eyed him warily, pushing his glasses up his nose with a single finger as he thought. "You're worrying me a little, but I suppose I can try to keep calm."_

_Dante took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and recalled everything he had read and practiced from the book in his lap. He concentrated as hard as he could before opening his eyes and looking to a small, dead bush nearby. He stared at it for long enough and intently enough that his vision blurred. And just when he was ready to give up, it happened. The branches of the bush ignited, blue flames sprouting from them and flickering with a heat he could feel even from where he sat with Logan ten feet away._

_Logan gasped in shock, scrambling backwards away from the bush, his eyes wide in -- was that **fear**? Was Logan afraid of him? Dante tore his eyes from the bush and the moment he did, the flames died out, leaving charred branches and a small patch of dead leaves around the bush. _

_"Logan," he said gently, looking to his love. Logan's eyes were still glued to the bush, his mouth slightly agape in his shock. Dante repeated his name once more, and Logan turned to look at him. "There's no reason to be afraid. This book... it has so many spells that my mother's other books don't have. Dark magic spells. There are spells to make somebody sick, or lock someone inside their mind, there are... I'm sure there are even spells in here to strip someone of their title. I can marry the queen, and strip her of her title, and we can be to--"_

_"No," Logan interrupted him, his voice small but sure. "You can't use that book, Dante. You can't do those spells."_

_"What? Why not?" His brows pulled together in confusion._

_"It's called **dark magic** for a reason. If you use those, I... you can't. Promise me."_

_And though he knew it was a lie - the first he had ever told him, but certainly not the last - Dante nodded. "I promise."_

***

The prince grew frustrated. Nothing seemed to work, and every idea he came up with was found to be faulty by Logan. That is, until in his desperation and hopelessness, he resorted back to the book, and from translations, he stumbled upon two spells— one of truth, and right after that, knowledge. ' _I don't have all the answers_ ,' Logan had said. **What if he did?**

With the knowledge that Logan would be angry with him - resent him - Dante pressed forward, reading as much as he could. It was for the best. It was for them. Logan would understand eventually.

After days of immediately rushing to the private room as soon as he woke and visiting his love at night, he finally believed he had it. He had combined a few minor spells, as well as some magic from a page about jinn, to create the pretty dark blue concoction in the bowl before him. He couldn't very well just cast the spell on Logan; he'd try to fight him. It was dangerous that way. So as awful as it made him feel— like he was planning on poisoning Logan— he dipped one of the kitchen's finest fruits into the substance radiating magic before him.

***

_Small raps on the window alerted him that Logan was here, so he rushed to unlatch it. He'd given Logan an amulet that would allow him to slip past guards unquestioned to make it here safely, the very same one that hung around his mischievous neck now. Mischievous in the way that it carried the weight of his wickedly intelligent mind running quick with constant ideas, and because it was absent of the fear of getting caught. It was apparent to anyone who looked at him._

_A part of him wanted to back out._

_The thumping of his heart told him to burn the fruit; burn the book— destroy it, just do something to rid himself of it. He couldn't do this to Logan. He just couldn't. He loved his bright eyes and grounding presence there to answer all his ponderings, and the mere idea of doing something against his will made Dante die a little inside. He loved him._

_Which was why he had to go through with this._

_Once Logan knew all the answers, they could easily figure out their kingdom, easily run away together. Dante would no longer have to worry about harm coming to Logan should they be caught, no longer have to fear having him in his bed. So he had to._

_He took Logan's hand once he had made it fully through his window, interlocking their fingers. He couldn't sneak Logan in through his bedroom, for it was too high up, but he could bring him to this secret room of infinite magical knowledge (an exaggeration, but to him it was everything). And if things weren't the way they were, Dante would've just taken him straight upstairs after a small, close dance between the two of them. **He still could.**_

_He roughly shoved the doubts completely aside. "Well hello, peasant whom I've never met before," he teased._

_The nerd flashed him the brightest grin back. Dante knew that this smile was reserved entirely for him, and it boosted his ego far more than was needed. "Greetings, my prince," he hummed, "Someone's in a fine mood."_

_"It's because you're here," he cooed with a light trace of his fingers along the edge of Logan's bangs. Really it was just nervous energy swirled with his love for Logan, and a whole lot of deception. But Logan was never an expert on reading emotions, so it shouldn't be too obvious._

_"I'm sure," Logan sassed with a smirking eye-roll._

_Now was his chance. He had to do this. If he didn't, everything that he was experiencing right here and right now would be over, and he'd never be with Logan. "I got you something. Just a small gift," he baited._

_Logan watched him with curiously amused eyes and a raised eyebrow, letting Dante know he was waiting. "Is that so?"_

_The both of them did a small dance of eye-contact that was like two cats about to pounce on each other. Then Dante gave in, going to a small table that wasn't covered in books behind him to uncover the fruit and present it with an over-dramatic bowing bend. "For you."_

_His nerd watched it with nearly as much wonder and delight as the first time Dante had used magic, urging him to continue with his plan. With delicate fingers, he smilingly reached to accept the fruit, only for Dante to quickly hold it above his head with a tutting sound and a wicked smirk that caused Logan to pout playfully. "Oh, but my dear Logan... Everything comes with a price," he teased._

_Logan played along, happier than the prince had seen him in a while. "And... what would that price be, exactly?" He stalked forward, fingers playing with the lacing string on his shirt. Dante swallowed, wanting the circumstances to be anything else but this... anything at all._

_He matched Logan's look of mischief, watching his stunning eyes as he spoke. "Hm. Possibly a kiss, possibly your eternal love," he deliberated, tilting his head a little._

_Logan's toying hand moved to his neck, tenderly kissing the other side of it, then Dante's warm lips to seal the deal. "And you already have the other one, my prince," he murmured next to his ear. He knew exactly how to nudge his way completely into Dante's thoughts._

_His blush was comparable in color to that of the apple in his hand as he lowered the fruit into Logan's fingers. He was terrified and his hand shook, but to anyone's eyes but his own, it could be seen as flusterment. "Here you are, my love."_

_In one sweeping movement, Logan's mouth met the fruit with bright eyes staring directly into Dante's. For a second, nothing but the race of his heart, and then..._

_Logan's face screwed up, shaking his head and blinking his eyes as if dizzy. "Dante... What did you do to this?" he inquired, filled with dread and terror. He swallowed, watching him with overflowing guilt and absolute silence. What if he'd gotten the spell wrong? "Dante answer me!" he ordered. His voice was horribly frantic now and he wobbled a bit._

_Dante just stood there, frozen as his heart threatened to shatter with how terrified Logan looked; how hurt and confused. "It's—It's for the best. I did this for us," he tried to make excuses for himself. Logan faltered, and his arms instantly went out to catch him, only to be shoved away by eyes that had been so bright only a moment ago, and were now filled with betrayal._

_His legs wobbled and tripped over each other, trying desperately to find footing and failing miserably. Dante thought for a moment that he'd accidentally poisoned him. How cruel of a fate would that be? That was when Logan tripped into the wall, hand slamming into the mirror to steady himself, and suddenly he was gone._

_And the white mirror turned black._

_And Dante screamed._


	10. Patches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman shows Virgil what he bought him at the market.

Roman watched Virgil for a minute longer as he fed the animals, just a few seconds after it started being weird, before he stepped out from behind the tree, quietly walking towards him. As bad as he felt for scaring off the animals, he couldn't very well stand behind a tree all afternoon and watch the other feed them. As soon as one of his footsteps fell a little heavier over the leaves, crunching them under his feet, the birds, rabbits, and deer all fled, and Virgil's head jerked up, a moment of panic crossing his soft features.

When he saw that it was only Roman, rather than a hunter or one of the king's guards, he relaxed a bit, getting to his feet and brushing his hands off on the legs of his pants. Roman smiled at him, glad that he didn't seem upset, really, that he had interrupted him. "I bought you something," he said, stuttering slightly at the last word when curiosity sparked in the other prince's eyes, making them light up impossibly. "Would you like to help me put the food away, and then I can give it to you?"

Roman... bought _him_ something? He watched him for a speechless moment, before giving a crooked smile, happiness still leftover from his encounter with what felt like the entire forest. He knew his hair was a tousled mess from the bird, and he blushed in embarrassment for his indecency before the other prince. Why did he care? They were just two princes... two guys in the middle of the woods running away from the world...

"Y-yeah," he stuttered out.

Roman fondly looked over him briefly, before slowly moving to fix his hair, giving Virgil time to pull away. He didn't try to run, frozen on the spot, so the taller prince chuckled and ran both hands through it one after the other, trying not to think too hard about how soft and thick it was. It wasn't fair. "How _do_ you get your hair to do that?" he whispered in playful astonishment.

Virgil shrugged, his face not-so-fair at the moment. He'd have to calm down the heat in his cheeks to fix that. Why did he feel like this?! Even with his lack of social interaction, he didn't think _this_ was normal!! Everything in his brain was screaming at him to abort, to run before his knees gave out under that glowing look and those messy curls, but he was completely stuck, body refusing to move. He felt like a confused fawn.

When he saw the blush on Virgil's face and the confused sort of panic in his eyes, Roman's fingers stilled in his hair. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that Virgil was like him. His imagination ran wild, giving him images of himself leaning in, his hand moving from his hair to cradle the fair prince's cheek, his gaze flickering down to those soft lips...

He blinked away the thoughts. He couldn't afford to think like that - Virgil wasn't like him, and he couldn't let himself linger on those sorts of thoughts, or he would frighten him off. He removed his fingers from Virgil's hair with a blush of his own and averted his eyes, clearing his throat. He picked up the bags from the market once more, having set them in the grass, and led the way into the cabin.

Virgil followed him after a moment, forcing his knees not to buckle and taking a deep breath to calm his blushing cheeks. Roman stopped in the kitchen, setting aside one of the bags - that Virgil assumed contained his surprise - and began taking out vegetables from the others.

"Would you mind rinsing these in the sink there?" he asked softly, as if he were afraid that if he spoke any louder, his tone would somehow give away his thoughts.

Virgil nodded, lost in his thoughts as well as he scrubbed at carrots and potatoes and the like. "Look— I've never exactly been around _people_ ," he broke the silence after a minute, gaining Roman's attention. The blond paused in putting things away, and Virgil set down a carrot. "Just— Just caretakers, and servants, and... yeah. People I didn't connect with. I mean, I had my mom until I was thirteen, but she was always busy. And I was so lonely I think I imagined my dad was a magic mirror... That part is really cloudy and weird," he continued rambling, likely saying too much, "So, sorry if I'm weird. It's... hard to get used to. I didn't know being around someone your age made you feel this—" He vaguely gestured with a throat noise. "Sorry," he added quickly. He looked down at the carrots again. Roman surely had to think he was strange.

Roman swallowed, watching him with amused eyes. His rambling was adorable. And though he felt bad for Virgil's childhood, he focused in on the good things like how Virgil _seemed_ to feel good around him? Roman was having trouble deciphering the meaning of the vague noise, but chuckled anyways, assuring him, "It is alright, there's nothing to be apologetic for, my prince. You're not weird." Feeling brave, but mostly jittery, he slipped his hand on top of Virgil's that rested on the counter, gently holding three of his fingers so his own slid between his pinky and thumb.

' _There it is again_ ,' Virgil thought; that weak, spinning, want-to-faint feeling. Maybe he was getting sick... Rather than do that, he just flushed pink, eyes darting away. "Thanks," he quietly squeaked. Maybe he should ask Roman about this— what it meant... That was a horrible idea. God, he was stupid.

After a moment, Roman withdrew his hand from Virgil's, his heart doing flips at the blushing squeak. The two silently returned to their washing and putting-away of the vegetables, Roman doing his best to ignore the small flame of hope that had started in his stomach - could it be possible that the other prince shared his feelings-- no, to even _think_ that was ridiculous.

Once all the food was put away, Roman turned to Virgil with a smile. "Are you ready for your surprise?" he mused, a playful glint in his eyes.

Virgil bit back a smile of his own, looking up at the blond curiously. He was still shocked that he'd actually bought something for him - not only was he opening his house to him, but he _bought something_ for him. It seemed a little unreal, like it was a cruel trick. Like he was going to wake up and be right back in the castle with his stepfather. Nonetheless, he nodded.

Roman grabbed the last bag - the one he had set aside that contained the outfit he'd bought for Virgil. The two of them walked to the living room and Roman motioned for Virgil to sit on the couch. He did with another curious look up at him, though this one was accompanied with confusion that pulled his brows together.

Once Virgil was seated, Roman reached into the bag and pulled out the outfit, holding up the shirt for him to see. It was a dark grey shade with purple-tinted puffy sleeves and patches over it that were a more saturated shade of the purple.

"I figured you needed your own clothes, since mine are too big on you," Roman explained, suddenly sheepish about them. "They're not as fancy as what you're used to, but they're handmade by one of the elderly women who frequent the market, and I figured since your outfit had the purple, you might... like... this..." He trailed off, his cheeks flushed red as he ducked his head slightly, unable to meet Virgil's eyes for worry that he would see contempt for the clothes there.

Eyes belonging to the bundle on the couch trailed the cloth, never having seen anything like it. He... loved the patched style, actually. Roman had really gotten this for him? He knew he should probably say something, but he was speechless and didn't want to keep sounding like a stuttering fool, so he took a breath before practically exhaling an, "I love it."

Roman instantly broke into a relieved grin, shoulders relaxing, and his demeanor softening while he observed Virgil's in-awe fingers reach out to touch the fabric. After a moment of indulging in this, he offered it into his hands. "It's yours," he affirmed.

The shy prince handled it as if it would crumble to ash. "Thank you," he uttered quietly.

He took the outfit from Roman's hands, and after another moment of silent awe-filled staring at it, he made his way upstairs to the bathroom to change. Slipping on the clothes, Virgil stared down at himself, his eyes wide. The cloth wasn't as soft as what he was used to, granted, but he loved it nonetheless. Roman had bought this for _him_. He had seen it, and thought of him.

That dizzying, weak-in-the-knees feeling washed over him again and he found himself grinning as he ran the hem of the shirt through his fingers, brushing his thumb along the stitching of one of the patches. He wasn't sure what was happening with him, didn't know why the thought of Roman _thinking of him_ made him feel this way, but he decided that he didn't mind it all too much.

Virgil made his way out of the bathroom and back down the stairs to the main room where the blond prince had taken a seat on the couch, his arm draped over the back in a picture of ease. He looked towards Virgil when he entered the room, and when his eyes widened slightly, the pinkish blush returning to his cheeks, the dark-haired prince felt nervousness fluttering in the pit of his stomach. "How... how do I look?" he asked meekly, rubbing his arm, not quite looking at Roman.

Why he cared what he thought of how he looked, he couldn't tell you. He shouldn't have cared - shouldn't have asked - it made absolutely no sense why he did. But even so, when he was met with only silence, his stomach turned in his anxiousness. He opened his mouth to say something, to dismiss the question, to laugh it off, but no sound came out of him, his cheeks burning. There was a long moment that seemed to stretch into eternity (that wasn't in reality more than a few seconds) before Roman spoke, and when he did, even though he wasn't sure why, the air rushed from Virgil's lungs in a breath of relief.

"Beautiful."


	11. Shattering Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Virgil toddles into their life for the first time, Logan smiles.

Logan wasn't speaking with Dante - because of course he wasn't. Why would he? It had been days after the accident until Dante even realized Logan wasn't gone. He had spent every waking hour curled up in the private room, searching through every book he could get his hands on, trying to bring him back, crying until he had no tears left to cry. And when he finally was able to bring himself to look at the dark surface of the mirror once more, he was surprised to see the face of his beloved, slightly blue-tinted through the glass, glaring at him silently.

He tried for weeks to get him to talk, begging him, apologizing until his voice was hoarse, rubbing his throat raw and bringing fresh tears to his eyes. But Logan wasn't saying a thing.

Could he even speak still? Dante focused his readings on trying to find out more about the man in the mirror, though he knew that he would find nothing. He had created a spell, had combined too many different kinds of magic, and now Logan was paying the price. What had he done?

***

_"Logan, please," he sobbed, sitting in front of the mirror. Logan had learned how to sink away into the mirror, hiding away from view. And that was what he was doing now. Hiding. "Talk to me. I don't know what I did. What did I do?"_

_"You'll have to be more specific." His voice appeared before his face did, as if the answer had torn through him before he had been conscious of it. The look of confusion on his face could be rivalled only by that on Dante's, though it only lasted an instant before it was replaced with calm anger._

_"You can speak?" He breathed out the question in relief, though his relief was short-lived when Logan nearly spat out the answer, anger and hurt in his voice that Dante should have expected, but still made his heart ache._

_"Of course I can speak, but that doesn't mean I **want** to. Leave me alone, Dante."_

_His heart broke, shattering every part of him as his shoulders slumped with his Logan's words. "I'm sorry," he pleaded, his voice desperate in a way it had never been before in his life. "Is there anything I can do to fix this?"_

_"You'll have to be more specific," he responded in the same prompted voice that he had used moments before._

_"Why do you keep saying that?" Despite how much he wished it didn't, frustration seeped into Dante's words, snapping them with a harshness he didn't fully intend. Logan hardly blinked in response to the harshness._

_"It is the answer I am given."_

_Questions swirled in his mind, and each answer Logan had given him so far had only made him more confused than the last. "Will you ever forgive me?" It was a simple enough question, hopefully it was specific enough._

_And the answer was clear, those sapphire eyes boring into Dante's like they could set him on fire with anger alone. His stomach pitched painfully, his eyes stinging with the prick of tears, when Logan answered._

_"No."_

***

Little did the prince know that every time Logan sank from view, he curled in on himself and sobbed. A pathetic, trembling, deep sadness to his very core that he couldn't do a single thing about except hope to drain himself of all his tears and die. Though he couldn't do that, could he? He was never leaving, was he? He tried asking himself, but the answers never came. They only came when he didn't want them to; when someone else spoke the questions.

Wherever he was was dark and empty and lonely and he _hated_ it. He hated it with every fiber of his being because how could Dante do this to him? Only weeks ago he'd been so happy in the prince's arms, listening to him speak about nothing and everything all at once, and now... now he'd ripped that all away from him. So no, he could never forgive Dante for tearing them apart.

Another thing he absolutely despised was how he still loved him. How could he love him after he'd gone behind his back and trapped him in here? Taken him away from being able to feel the outside breeze— to see his family... Some part of him knew that he'd never feel the crunching of leaves under his back as he lay beside Dante, and that absolutely _broke_ him.

So he stayed quiet. He didn't speak a word to his sobbing lover because he deserved every bit of those tears for what he'd done to him. He deserved to feel some semblance of this destruction tearing through his once-bright mind.

Then Dante started talking to him every night, never asking questions, always just talking even if he never acknowledged him. And one night Logan couldn't take it anymore.

***

_He tapped his head against the wall, quietly sitting beneath the mirror as he always did. He knew he had completely ruined things and would never be forgiven, but he needed **someone** to talk to, even if he no longer listened. His tears had run out days ago, leaving him entirely numb. He had caused exactly what he feared most. _

_"I was going to abandon my ideas of Reishel, but now I'm being forced into the marriage as a way to make peace between our two kingdoms. I'm to wed her before the month is out," he retold. He sighed, aching to hear a response but getting none. "I'll have to come up with a way to safely transport you and the books there without questioning. Maybe someone from their kingdom can help fix this if my mother cannot. I'm so **so** stupid. I can't believe I—"_

_As Logan had been listening, the tears returned nearly stronger than before. His entire world had fallen apart and Dante was just out of his reach, taunting him. And now, as if none of that was enough, he was going to be forced to go to another kingdom with a married Dante. He would have a kid._

_Logan would never escape this Hell._

_His resolve crumbled, and he revealed himself with tear-stained cheeks out of pure desperation. "Just shatter me already!" Logan pleaded, his voice choked. He forced rage into it, no matter how utterly drained he was._

_Dante scrambled to his feet and away from the wall, looking at Logan in shock, and there would have been relief if Logan hadn't just asked to be killed. "What?" he reflexively asked. His blonde hair was a mess, his eyes sunken in._

_His voice was coated in thick anguish as the words pathetically tore themselves from his throat. "You'll have to be more specific." They left him sobbing and coughing. " **Please**. I can't live like this... I can't take it anymore! Shatter me, you **monster**." And somehow he accidentally discovered a new way to appear in the mirror as he automatically fell to his knees, the image shrinking to show his entire body. He didn't care much, the sag of his shoulders revealing his trembling. _

_"You know I can't do that," he whispered. And as much as it pained him to see Logan cry, it was worse to live without him, so he sat back down, and Logan went back to being quiet._

***

The wedding with the queen of Reishel was beautiful, objectively, though that was to be expected, as it was put together by the finest planners and it was for the queen herself. But Dante didn't care for the beauty of it. He only cared about one thing anymore, and though Logan had told him that he could never - _would never_ \- forgive him, he still had to find a way for them to be together. He had managed to move the mirror into the study that the last king had used, though he was forced to keep it covered with a sheet to keep his Logan hidden from prying eyes.

After Dante had refused to shatter him, Logan had gone back to relative silence, only speaking when asked a question - and even then, his words were blunt, laced with poison, and his breath came in hiccupping sobs.

The biggest change in his life after the wedding wasn't the new palace, or that Logan still refused to talk to him, or even that he was now king to all of Reishel. It was the boy. He had expected a one-year-old infant, one who could barely talk and walk. Not a two-year-old toddler, curious and constantly seeking attention.

Little Prince Virgil was proving to be a handful.

***

_"What'sat?" the young boy lisped, his voice not yet holding the clear distinction of his heritage. He stood in the doorway of Dante's study, his nursemaid nowhere in sight, staring with those big doe-eyes as Dante flipped through the pages of one of his mother's old journals. The sheet over Logan was pulled back, revealing the black surface of the glass, though he didn't bother covering it again when he realized he had an audience. If Logan made an appearance to answer the little prince's question, it wasn't as if anyone would believe him if he told of the magic mirror in his stepfather's office._

_He looked up from the pages, his eyebrows tugging up on his forehead as he eyed the prince. As angry and frustrated and **broken** as he was, he didn't want to be mean to him in any way - he was just a child - but he also desperately wanted nothing to do with him. He wasn't his. He was nothing but another unfortunate add-on to this marriage he'd been forced into. "A book," he replied simply, his tone even. "Where's your nursemaid, Virgil?" _

_"Nonna's napping," he chimed sweetly with a grin. "She's tiiiiired."_

_"Aren't you supposed to be napping as well?"_

_He bounded his way into the office, his bare feet padding on the wood floor with soft little thuds - he would learn to walk more quietly soon, Dante hoped. The nonstop thud, thud, thud, of little feet through the halls as he raced to whatever interested him next was nearly unbearable. With the little ball of energy that Virgil was, it was no surprise the nursemaid needed a nap in the middle of the day._

_"What'sat?" he asked, pointing to the mirror. One of the sapphires embedded on the side caught the light pouring in through the high window and Virgil's jaw dropped in awe. "Pretty!" He reached forward and touched the sapphire with surprisingly gentle fingers._

_The second his fingers brushed against the gemstone, Logan's face appeared in the glass, the image of smoke swirling around it for a moment before dissolving. Virgil gasped, his bright eyes widening as his mouth dropped into a small 'o' of wonder and shock._

_"Whoa..." he whispered, looking up at the man in the mirror. "What are you?"_

_"I am a human consciousness trapped within the confines of a mirror," Logan answered immediately, the response prompted from him without hesitation. And then, in order for the small child to be better able to understand, he mused softly, "Magic."_

_At the sound of the voice, Dante looked up once more from his book, and nearly dropped it in his surprise._

_For the first time in months, Logan - his Logan - was smiling._


	12. Curiosity of a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was any going back for Dante before, there isn't now.

After seeing such a bright look of adoration radiating from Logan when Virgil curiously asked all his questions, Dante started bringing him by more often. If he couldn't make Logan happy anymore, then at least the tot could, and he was okay with just watching from a distance as his love smiled. It was such a sweet sight. It made life feel a little less dreadful to see a small black-haired boy sitting criss-cross on the floor, head craned back to look up at an adoring Logan, who would occasionally give Dante a knowing look. This was Dante's way of apologizing in a way, and they were slowly going back to being civil with each other, even if it was written in stone that Logan would never forgive him. He was okay with that. He deserved it.

As for Logan, he had finally found a purpose for his power: being able to answer all the questions of a curious boy who reminded him too much of himself. The highlight of his day was when the echoes of long-striding boots and quick-paced slaps of toddling steps made their way down the hall and to his room. They'd enter the door hand-in-hand, Dante would keep his distance, and he'd share the secrets of the world with a toddler who was far brighter than any king. And in moments like these, he could almost imagine forgiving Dante for what he'd done.

The queen questioned where her husband and son were spending so much time every day, and Dante always smiled and said "quality time" or "teaching him the ways of a prince". She simply gave a fond look and never pressed any further. Her husband was a strange man, never touching her, but he was at least good with Virgil. Not that she minded that he didn't touch her; she was relieved, actually.

Virgil grew and grew, feeling almost like their son. It was an odd family, two fathers, one of which was inside a mirror, but he liked to think of it as such anyway. Logan had started talking to him again, if only small conversations that never went too deep, but Dante knew it was just because he had no one else, and if not for Virgil that probably wouldn't have happened.

***

Clomp, slap slap slap, clomp... The rhythm that soothed Logan more than anything in the world came in the form of the arrival of the king and the king-in-training to brighten his day. He was even happy to see Dante now, strange because of everything that had happened, but he gave everything he had in trying to make Logan as happy as he could possibly be trapped in a mirror, all while he attempted to get him out. Besides, who else was he going to enjoy the presence of? The occasional mice? It was impractical to his own sanity to be hostile towards him forever.

Dante had even started asking him the loveliest questions, all so he could live in the daydreams for a bit. He'd ask him what a spring day was like, what their first kiss was like, his favorite memory, to show some of their nights spent together, scenes from his favorite books, or anything else Logan suggested, and he'd show him— he'd become them, and suddenly being trapped wasn't so bad. He had things he couldn't even imagine as a simple tutor's son, and he had Virgil.

Entering the door, Dante picked Virgil up with a large swoop, and spun him over to the mirror with the brightest grin in the world. The corners of Logan's mouth twitched up... His boys. With the plopping down of a giggling Virgil, he asked without thinking, "Logan, isn't our little prince just the fairest of them all?"

Had he been any normal person, the question wouldn't have thrown him so off-guard. Answering was like hiccuping: it pulled itself from your stomach without your consent, and it was annoying, but it didn't hurt. "No, you are." He shook his head and blinked to clear his mind.

Dante paused, cocking his head in confusion, before realizing what it meant. It had been quite a while since the blonde blushed, but he did in that moment, choked in his speech. He may or may not have used just a few of his mom's beauty spells to impress Logan as a teen. They appeared to have worked.

His head snapped up to hear a short burst of nose-laughter that turned into full-on cracking up, and his cheeks darkened, eyes widening to see his Logan truly laughing. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, particularly. It only mattered that he was happy, and that Dante was part of the reason why. Though it was soon interrupted by Virgil asking why he couldn't have a sibling, and Dante groaned, not sure whether to cover his eyes or his ears. This was going to be a long few years.

***

Their happiness lasted for four whole years. But as all good things must do, everything around them had to come undone.

***

Virgil practically ran into the room, smile bright, and excited to see Logan after finishing his lessons for the day. "Dad!" he greeted to get his attention. The young boy, aged six now, had taken to calling him that, for he never knew his real dad, and that's just the way he saw him. Dante was 'father', and this made both men nearly entirely content with their lives.

"Yes my little star?" Logan hummed, face instantly appearing in the mirror.

Dante just glowed warmly, amused at how Virgil had gone straight to Logan. Must be something important. "Hello to you too, Virgil," he said sarcastically.

Virgil turned his head over his shoulder to give Dante an embarrassed smile of greeting, before instantly going back to Logan. "Mom taught me how to do roses today! And I found a frog!" he pulled the annoyed and jostled reptile out of his pocket of all places.

It had been the longest time since Logan had seen a frog. He remembered when he and Dante used to dissect them as kids. Oh, how long ago that had been... The look he shared between Dante portrayed that he remembered as well, and it displayed his deep regret over the situation all because the frog— of all things— was a reminder of his restraint.

"Oh Virgil, let him back outside; you'll kill him!" Logan laughed.

Virgil huffed a little. "I'm being careful," he protested with the slightest of eyerolls commonly found in six year olds.

"Tell that to the frog," Dante mused, shaking his head. Logan snorted a little.

Carefully phrasing his question like he'd been taught, Virgil asked, "Would you like to tell me what you did today?" It meant the same as 'what did you do today', but Logan was allowed to give his own answer this way.

"Yes," he had to reply. Then he listed, "Just the usual mirror things, talking with your father..." He really couldn't do much unless asked him the questions that allowed him to create images, then he had a nice place to experience for a while.

Virgil giggled a little. "And what exactly do mirrors do?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Reflect," he automatically produced, then added, "I'm the only one with abilities." He gave Virgil a warm smile, wishing he could reach out and touch his deep-in-thought cheek.

"How did you even get in there in the first place?"

The question had been innocent; said with a smile. But the second it was uttered, Dante and Logan both looked horrified, the sound echoing throughout the room, and Logan's image shifted. It was only a brief moment; just the briefest of glimpses at Dante dipping the apple in the concoction, but it was enough for Logan's wounds to reopen, and for Dante to turn his hurt into anger upon the boy.

Logan was living it again. It was him. His whole life in the present was caused by this moment, and now he was having to become it, and it hurt. He'd never seen what Dante had done— never asked. The lengths he had gone through for this— he had lied to his face their whole interaction, had let him bite into the fruit, not knowing what the consequences might be.

It tore through him.

"Tell him to stop!" Dante frantically shouted. They had discovered that the question could only be canceled by the asker. The order frightened Virgil and he flinched, but complied anyways.

Logan disappeared.

"W-What happened?" he asked Dante, fear shaking his voice. His beautiful eyes were frightfully wide, and Dante would never forget the image. Never forget, especially after what came next.

"Go back to your mother," he growled in a low, unsteady voice, much more terrifying than if he would've shouted.

Virgil didn't know what he did wrong. "W-What did I do?" he questioned, always used to the warm glow and kindness his parents supplied him.

"Out!" he snapped. There was a tremble to his whole form that was despair masked as rage, and to a six year old that was the end of the world. Logan appeared to stop Dante and comfort Virgil, but it was too late.

The little prince fled.

***

Logan fought Dante for weeks, begging and pleading for Virgil, absolutely sobbing for the first time in years, before finally falling mute again. He was heartbroken. Why wouldn't Dante just let him see him again? His starlight. He was theirs... their happiness for four whole years. Logan was watching him grow... And now— now it was all gone. How could Dante take that away from him?

Truth be told, Dante was too ashamed to look at Virgil again. He'd yelled at the innocent little boy— he was changing... He didn't feel like himself at all anymore, and it was driving him insane, needing to find a way to free Logan as soon as he could so he could go back to a normal life. Why couldn't they go back to a normal life? Dante just wanted to go back to the nights of sneaking around with Logan in his own kingdom, and not all this constant fighting, unable to touch, so far from home. This wasn't at all what he had dreamt of as a boy.

Years passed, and the young prince was sure to steer as far from the office as he could. He had taken to avoiding the hallway in general, often times having to take a longer way in order to get to where he needed to be. But after he had been shut from his parents' lives, after Dante had made it clear that he was no longer permitted in the room, he wanted to be nowhere near it.

Logan had tried explaining to Dante countless times that he wanted to see the boy, that he missed their Virgil. He wasn't angry with him. But Dante would have none of it. He didn't want to have to go through that pain and panic again if he asked the wrong question. He had to make sure that nobody asked Logan the wrong question, and the only way to do that... was to make sure nobody but him asked Logan any questions. Nobody but him could see Logan again, he wouldn't risk them knowing what he had done.

But that didn't mean Logan was happy about it.

***

Dante sat with his stupid books, acting like today was just any day. It wasn't just any day. It was his Virgil's 13th birthday: a birthday of high importance. Logan missed him so much. Seven years without his bright face and never-ending questions about birds and rabbits and deer and... anything, really. He'd gotten used to the pain; to the loneliness and emptiness that so surrounded his life and threatened to swallow him whole until there wasn't anything left of who he used to be. It made him numb.

"It's his birthday, you know. I bet you haven't even looked at him today," he spit. Why did he have to be stuck hung on a wall? Why couldn't he do what Dante wouldn't and ask Virgil to come back? To forgive them.

Dante looked up from his books with an expression that he did his best to keep the anger out of. He wanted to ask why he should care about the boy's birthday - it wasn't as if he had had anything to do with him any other day in the last seven years - but he had grown to hate the prompted tone in Logan's voice every time he was forced to give an answer. "I have been here all day, Logan. You know for a fact that I haven't looked at him. Hell, you know everything. You know I haven't looked at him in over a week." He kept his voice level, a nearly cold calmness washing over every word.

He didn't have any guilt, did he? This wasn't Dante. It hadn't been for a long time. "Of course you haven't. He used to be ours, you know... but he made me happy, and you snuff out Every. Single. Thing. that makes my life feel a little bit less like a living hell!" He was fed up with silence— fed up with biting his tongue and just letting this insufferable monster dictate his life. He wasn't a slave. And he knew that Dante didn't have much more choice in it than he did, but he was the one who caused this, and he was the one who refused to shatter him, then took his starlight away.

"He hurt you, Logan," he snapped, slamming shut the book in front of him and turning fully to face the mirror. "We taught him for years to always ask the right questions, to be careful of what he said, and he asked the wrong thing, and he hurt you. If I have control over one goddamn thing in this castle, it's who gets to see you."

"You hurt me every day!" he burst, "My life is miserable stuck in this room every waking minute with a lunatic. At least with him I had a purpose; at least I had something to do rather than watch you reread the same exact books over and over!" It felt like all the pain over the past roughly twelve years was erupting from his throat. There was a time he loved Dante, but the circumstances stamped out anything he'd ever felt, leaving cold, half-charred wood.

"I have to do something," he insisted, growling the words, only barely holding onto any resolve he had. "I can't sit here day in and day out and pretend like I can't fix this. I can fix this, Logan. I just have to find out how. There's something I'm missing."

"The only thing you're missing is a soul," he struck with venom. He was beyond logical arguments, simply striking out in hurt and anger. "You would've found it by now. It's been twelve years. Get your head out of whatever delusion you're living." The only questions Logan could never answer— the only ones that had no affect on him... were when Dante asked anything in regards to the curse. Those were always blank.

"Tell me the answer then," he snapped, finally yelling at Logan - his Logan, who he had never thought he would be so filled with anger for. "Is there a way to break the curse?" He'd asked him the very question countless times before, and each time, Logan hadn't been able to answer it. But he was past the point of caring. He needed to know. Needed to do something. To hear that he just had to keep searching, and he would be able to fix everything.

Logan bit his tongue in the purest form of frustration he'd ever experienced. Dante knew, and yet he taunted him. He didn't have any retort, nothing clever or cold to say: just the enraging feeling that there was nothing he could do— no matter how hard he wished— and that he'd always be stuck in one place without the touch of another. He screamed in his frustrations, speaking just to get the last word. "I hate you. I hate you to your very core and everything that you stand for. Even if you could free me, I'd rather kill myself than have to be in your presence willingly." He regretted the words instantly, but that didn't matter. They had been said.

Dante clenched his fists at his side. He'd never felt so much anger, so much absolute fury, in his life, and he hated the fact that he felt it towards the one person he loved. He saw the regret flash across that blue-tinted face almost as soon as the words passed his lips, but he was too far gone to care much about that. This was his childhood friend, the love of his life, and he was slipping - no, tearing - away from him. "Maybe I'll just leave you alone, then! Live the rest of your life under that sheet with nobody to speak to. You'd be begging for my presence then, wouldn't you?"

The tears finally fell, and whether from anger or the absolutely wrecked feeling of exhaustion and despair, it didn't matter. "Do it," he uttered, voice barely steady enough to force those two words out.

The door creaked open then, the queen wondering at the noise coming from her husband's office, wondering at who he could possibly be speaking to in such a tone. She had just been trying to find Virgil, and sincerely hoped that Dante wouldn't dare use that volume with him, especially not on his birthday. And in his anger and the panic of knowing someone was going to see the magic of the mirror, Dante's hand shot out with a flick towards the door, allowing magic to course through his fingertips. When he heard the rush of air from her lungs, he turned towards her-- just in time to see the look of confused betrayal flash across her face before she crumpled to the ground, her body limp. Dante was too stunned to do anything but stare as the life left her eyes.

"What have you done?" Logan whispered in horror.

The queen was dead, and Dante was never the same.


	13. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton never left the castle. He has to take the mirror away from the king.

The power that the king wielded was dangerous. Patton knew that the minute he had seen it. It was much too dangerous - too much - for one person to wield, especially when that one person so obviously had dark intentions in mind. He had to come up with a plot to get that power, even just some of it, away from the king. He debated only for a minute what part of his power he needed to take.

The mirror.

The man who was being held captive by Dante's side, perpetually forced to answer questions he had no control over, containing knowledge Dante had no right knowing. He would end up telling the king of where Virgil was - if the king was smart enough to ask, that was. And Patton couldn't have that. Not after he had gone through so much to get the prince to safety. He felt that the king would ask, and the mirror... the mirror would have no choice but to answer truthfully. What kind of life was that? Having to know everything and never able to control the answers a simple question forced out of you. To be at someone else's beck and call. Even more than Patton wanted to take the mirror from Dante to take that power from him, he wanted to free the man in the mirror.

And he knew in his heart that all of this fell on him. All of it. Because why else would his death lead to the destruction of a kingdom? He must do something now that changes it all; that saves everything from ruin, and he didn't know what it was, but whatever he did must be right as long as he did _something_. The best something he could think of was to perform a heist...

The only question was how.

He didn't leave the castle that night - he should have, what with the king trying to kill him, but he didn't. Instead, he ducked down an empty hallway off the kitchen that he had found in one of his trips to the palace to bring the animals from his hunts. The only others who knew about this hallway were the cooks, and he trusted that they wouldn't say a word if they saw him. They knew him well, and they trusted him almost as much as he trusted them.

Hours passed at a crawling pace, the only sounds being those of the kitchen coming muffled through the stone wall. The hunter's only clue as to what time it was were the voices of the cooks and servants, the clattering of dishes as they washed up after supper. It wasn't long before he knew it was late enough that he could step from the hallway.

He supposed it was lucky, being so experienced in stepping slowly and silently from his time in the forest, as his footsteps didn't make so much as a single sound when he stepped from the hidden hall. Patton crept his way towards the throne room, treading lightly as he carefully pushed open one of the doors, just enough to peek inside. Finding that the room was empty but for the furniture and the mirror, the hunter breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't know what he would say - how he would explain himself - if the king or any of his guards were in the room. After the mirror's revelation earlier that day, he knew that the king and his guards wouldn't kill him, but that didn't necessarily mean they wouldn't lock him in the dungeon and torture him for the rest of his days.

The hunter slipped into the throne room, easing the door shut behind him so it didn't make a sound, and turned and faced the room once more. Without the king in it, even in the darkness, it held the bright warmth once again that he had seen in it when he'd first entered that afternoon. It seemed ages ago now, though it wasn't more than a few hours.

His eyes were drawn nearly immediately to the mirror. It was turned to face the throne, so its dark glass surface couldn't be seen very well, but Patton looked nonetheless. He moved forward, his feet moving of their own volition, until he faced the mirror.

It was beautiful. The glass wasn't black - he could see that now that he was close to it in a situation where he wasn't immediately in danger - but rather, a dark shade of blue. The golden frame was intricately designed, twining around itself line thorned vines, thin golden leaves nestled among the thorns. Brilliant sapphires, impossibly dark and reflecting back a light that Patton wasn't quite sure where it was coming from. He reached forward hesitantly, his fingers outstretched and his hand moving slowly as if floating through water, and ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the golden frame, tracing one of the gems.

Logan appeared in the glass, a sharp gasp drawn from him in surprise at being touched, at having someone here after Dante had retired to bed. And when he saw that it was the hunter from earlier, whose head would be on a pike by now if not for Logan's quick thinking, his bright blue eyes gazing at the surface of his glass, Logan was sure he would melt.

"What are you doing here?" he asked softly, aware that if he spoke too loudly, he would wake Dante or draw attention from any of the guards he knew patrolled the hallways.

"I'm getting you out of here, mirror--"

"Logan," he interrupted gently, and when the hunter stuttered to a stop, he smiled softly. It had been so long since he'd smiled. Ages. Thirteen long _long_ years. "My name is Logan."

"Logan," the hunter repeated with a nod. "My name is Patton. And I'm getting you out of here. Somehow. But if what you showed me is what happens if I die, then I can't let it happen while I'm alive either, and you don't deserve to be held captive by him like this."

The nerd looked at him in awe. Nobody— not a single soul— could be as brave and compassionate as the man before him. Any other would have fled and never returned, but him... somehow he'd returned for Logan despite the high probability that he'd die. And then he snapped out of the dream, and his smile turned bittersweet. Even if Patton managed to escape with him, Dante would tear the kingdom apart trying to find him. He still had his own magic. It wouldn't be hard to just locate him with that.

Patton had to destroy him.

"You can't. He'd just come after me, whether with magic or with door-to-door soldiers," he explained.

"But—" There _had_ to be _something_ Patton could do to thwart even someone as powerful as the king.

"Shatter me," Logan instructed surely. He'd had plenty of time in here, in the dark, to think about his death. He'd come to accept it— to embrace it. If there were gods, there were gods, and if there weren't, then he could just... not exist and he wouldn't even be able to tell the difference.

"What?" the hunter whispered in shock.

"Shatter me. I have no fear of my own death, and it's the only way to prevent countless others'. So do it. Shatter me and then run as fast as you possibly can."

"I can't," he murmured, the tears springing to his eyes and sliding down his cheeks. Patton knew he was right without even having to ask him. Why did he have to be right? Patton didn't want to kill someone, but he had to. For the second time that day, someone's life was placed in his hands and he couldn't do it much longer. If he really thought about it, however, the entire kingdom was placed in his hands, and it was one brilliant, good-hearted person versus hundreds.

Logan saw the conflict in his eyes, the resignation to his fate that contradicted his words. He could and he would, even if he didn't want to. "You can," he assured softly. "I won't even feel it. Do it quickly. Virgil's— the kingdom's survival depends on you, Patton." The name fell off his lips softly, and it just seemed to _fit_ , making him glad he was able to utter it at least once in his life.

The hunter scrubbed at his eyes. After a shaky breath, he nodded and mumbled, "Okay." He looked around him, looking for something to shatter the mirror with - to shatter _Logan_ with. He couldn't believe that he was doing this. He was killing someone. And he was in this situation because he refused to kill someone else. It took only a moment for him to find the box the king had had him put the heart in - it was set down beside the throne - and he tried not to gag as he took it back with him. It was beginning to smell something awful, but it was the only out-of-place object in sight.

He looked at Logan with the saddest eyes the mirror had ever seen. They were filled with more emotion than even Dante had harbored after his entrapment, something he didn't think was possible. How were they so sad? "It's okay," he assured with a nod. If he weren't stuck behind glass— if he could touch this despaired man— he would wipe the water from his cheeks, and rest there a bit before the blow was struck and it was all over. But he would have to die without the feeling of skin-on-skin, something long-abandoned 18 years ago.

"Is there... is there anything you would like to see before--" Patton paused, swallowing thickly as he tried to hold off the tears once more. "--before you die?" He knew that Logan would be forced to answer the question, but he hoped that the way he had phrased it would be enough to let him answer in his own way rather than the seemingly-prompted answers he had given earlier. "Anything you would like to experience?"

Logan was glad that he didn't have to think this time. The magic that he was ensnared in let him answer his heart's deepest desire, and the words left his mouth before he even knew what they were. "My fondest memory of Virgil, but how it would have been like outside of the mirror." He didn't even know if this would work, because he'd never tried to alter memories, but he was about to die, so why not at least try it?

Voice painfully trembling and choked, the hunter asked the question. And it worked. It really worked: Logan was holding Virgil's tiny hand in his, other arm propping him up on his hip, and dancing the toddler about the room.

Light filtered through a window high on the wall, curtains that had been previously shut now open to allow glowing warmth in. There was no need for secrecy now, for he was here. He was out. And Dante was his once more. The king watched Logan rock side to side, turning in circles to imaginary music with their little starlight, love blossoming and filling his heart. Virgil's giggles permeated the room, and Logan could never have been happier. He felt everything. The love, the joy, the pure emotions of a toddler, and he forgot all about what lay outside the glass.

It was all Patton could do to not break down and sob right there in the throne room. The tears dripped visibly against the light illuminating from such a happy memory, something so unbelievable compared to what he'd seen from the king earlier that day. How was this the same person at all? Yet still he held his breath forcibly, the air threatening to burst from his lungs in harsh hiccups, and he reared the box back, hoping Logan couldn't see him like this. Hoping that the happy memory was all he knew. And with one quick motion, right as the smiling king kissed Logan on the cheek with the young prince still in his arms, he brought down the item of death as hard as he could.

The piercing sound of shattering glass echoed about the room.

He knew he should run— they would kill him after hearing the noise— but he just collapsed to his knees, box tumbling from his hand. And all that breath he'd been holding... it rushed out uncontrollably, leaving him gasping and coughing as the tears flowed freely. He'd just killed someone. Someone who only meant good. Someone who had loved and lost, been trapped for who knows how long, and... And had helped him save countless lives by sacrificing himself.

He'd _killed_ him.

"Patton?" The quiet, surprised voice came out unsure, but the hunter instantly recognized it. How could that be? His head jolted up, and he swiveled around on his knees to see the man from the mirror standing physically in front of him, the shattered object behind him. **_How could that be?_**

He let in another shuttered breath that could be considered three breaths with the way his lungs constricted to break it to pieces. "L-Logan? Bu-ut how?"

Logan quickly recovered from the absolute shock and relief he felt. He could feel the ground beneath his feet. It was a bit uncomfortable, and his stance wasn't as sturdy as he would have liked, considering that he hadn't had to physically use his legs in so long, but he could feel it and it wasn't just a vision. However, that wasn't what was important now. He had to get them out of there, and get them out now, lest they want to both be executed on the spot right after he'd been freed.

Sliding to his knees, he cupped Patton's face with both hands, mostly because he just wanted to feel the warmth of skin— real skin and not the kind the magic allowed him to conjure up in his head. "Listen. I need you to calm down, and on the count of three, we're going to get up and run out of here. We're not going to think, we're just going to run as fast as we can until we're sure no one is following us. Deal? And then we can worry about everything else. Can you do that?" He said in a soothing voice. A deep, commanding one that was strong enough to get things done.

Patton nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, listening to the man's voice that reminded him he was alive. Patton didn't kill anyone... he'd freed him.

_One... two... **three.**_


	14. ???? Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Roman tease each other over a game of Mancala.

With a heart beating faster than rampant horses and ears as red as a cardinal's feather, Virgil began to seriously question if this was normal. Was it normal... for boys... to call each other beautiful over apparel? And if it was, why did it make him absolutely lose it? The sheltered prince couldn't handle this— this carriage wreck of emotions he seemed to be unable to stop feeling since he got here.

Roman inwardly cursed himself for letting the word slip past his lips. He hadn't meant to say it... Sure, it was true - Virgil was so absolutely, incredibly beautiful standing there in front of him in the outfit he had bought him - but that didn't mean he should say it. And seeing the look of conflict on Virgil's face made him regret it even more. He was a disaster to put it simply.

Virgil came the rest of the way down the stairs and sat down on the couch with Roman. "T-thanks," he stuttered out to break the silence. Was he ever going to stop stuttering?

"You're welcome." Roman could've sworn the temperature in the room increased significantly, and he just barely pulled at his shirt collar to let the imaginary breeze in, trying to come up with something to do tonight that wasn't sitting in blushing silence and stuttering conversation. Luckily he was creative and it hit him instantly. "Have you ever played mancala?" he asked suddenly with a sharp shift on the couch to face the fair prince.

Virgil was thrown off-guard for a second, his usual quiet reserved-ness being disrupted by an incredibly energetic prince. Though he wasn't complaining. "N-no. What's that?" he blinked.

"I'll show you," he responded, not having a single clue how he would make a make-shift board. Dirt! Yeah, that would work... Dirt, beans, and a stick. Thoughts in somewhat order, he jumped up off the couch, holding his hand out to a confused and somewhat alarmed-looking Virgil. It was cute when he was thrown-off; made his eyes go a little big and his lips just barely scrunch together...

Stop it. Stop thinking about him like this, Roman.

With a certain dainty delicacy, Virgil's surprisingly cold hand slid into his, allowing him to pull him up.

Roman held onto Virgil's hand a moment longer than he should have, perhaps. After they were both on their feet, he met Virgil's wide eyes, his heart in his throat, and though he loosened his grip on the small, cold hand, he certainly still held onto it, his fingers just barely touching him. There was a moment of heavy silence that seemed to drag on for an eternity before Roman's cheeks flushed pink and he released him fully.

Virgil was frozen, his stomach flipping upside down and his heart racing faster than it ever had before. What was going on? Why did a simple touch affect him this way? Was this just... was this how it felt to be touched?

He supposed that this could very well be how it felt to be touched by anyone, seeing as he had only ever known the touch of the palace workers and his mother - and perhaps Dante as well, when he was much younger, though his memories on that were faint - but a part of him doubted it.

'I should ask him...' he thought to himself, knowing that he would never follow through on doing so. Would never have the courage to ask Roman if the feelings were normal. Virgil was at least smart enough to subconsciously know that it wasn't normal, he was just in a deep state of denial.

Thinking unrelentingly about the kiss scenes in his favorite romance plays wasn't normal...

Roman snatched a bag of dry beans from the kitchen, and waited at the front door for the other prince. This highly confused Virgil, who squinted his eyes, creeping slowly forward, and stopped just before him. The energetic one rolled his eyes playfully, and impatiently grabbed his hand. Virgil was pretty sure he'd accidentally left his heart back in the doorway as he was dragged outside without it.

Roman stopped, swooping down to grab a stick, and using it to draw in the softened dirt. It was just a rectangle... with twelve smaller rectangles, and then two big ones on the sides. There was no end to Virgil's curiosity over what was being set up. As Roman drew, Virgil couldn't help but stare at the light, almost dancing way he moved and his bright look of concentration and imagination that ended in the very tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

A thud as the other prince flopped down to sit in the dirt was the only thing that snapped him from his thoughts. "Sit," he ordered, occupied with putting three counted-out beans in each small rectangle. Virgil obeyed, still intently watching to try and figure out how the game would work as if he would be able to read Roman's mind just by watching him. Roman set the remaining beans aside, wiped his hands together, and took a deep breath.

"So. Here's how you play—" He launched into an energetic explanation of the easy rules. Sounded fun to Virgil, for he was never much used to playing games, and it seemed like it was enjoyable. "You'll figure it out. I'll show you as we go along," he summarized, catching his breath with a heave of his chest and a wildly mirthful look.

Virgil slowly nodded, swallowing to push down this rising feeling at witnessing the passion with which Roman explained the rules. He cast his eyes down again. Focus on the game.

The two of them began playing. It took a while for Virgil to figure out what he was doing, but every time he hesitated or slipped up, Roman reached forward with a gentle touch and took his hand to show him how to do it again. His skin felt like it was on fire, his senses coming to life in ways they never had before in every gentle brush of their fingertips. He wasn't sure whether to linger in every touch or pull his hand away like he had been burned.

As they went through the choppy turns, the sun bore down on them through the branches, evened-out by a cool breeze, making the day perfectly warm for the two sitting criss-cross. The competition made Virgil feel as alive as the touches. And although he'd mastered the game perfectly— it wasn't hard, he'd just never played any board games aside from maybe chess— he still pretended to be hesitant just to get a taste of contact.

"Ha!" he triumphed, placing a line of beans down Roman's side of the board. He sat back on his palms with a perfect smirk.

Roman thought it wasn't fair. Not that Virgil was in the lead his first time playing, but that his black hair caught the sunlight, giving it shimmering brown streaks. And not to mention his eyes— they shone like rays of the sun through a brown glass bottle to compliment that perfectly smug smile.

"Roooomaaan," Virgil's goofily teasing voice drew him out of his thoughts.

"Y-yeah. Sorry," he apologized, staring at his options before scooping up a handful of the now gritty, dirt-covered beans and moving them down the board. The other prince must think him highly strange with the way he seemed to freeze-up, stare, and stutter so much.

Virgil chuckled, which made it his turn to be confused. "What?" Roman questioned. The prince of Reishel looked up at him, only one eye visible because of the way the bangs had fallen in the other. There was that aggravatingly, stupidly, hot smirk again, and Roman didn't know how much longer he could handle it.

"My natural talent trip you up or something, Princey?" he teased in unison with the taunting drop of beans down the board.

Ignoring the question, he chose instead to focus on the nickname with a thinking face that had his eyes darting to the side and mouth scrunching to the right. "Princey? We're both princes..." he drawled out, his eyebrows drawn down in a way that made Virgil want to— something. He had no idea what he was feeling, but he had a general idea that it involved touching his face, and that was very confusing, just like everything was here.

"I don't know," Virgil mused playfully, pushing past the slight nervous tremble to his voice, hoping it wasn't noticeable. "You embody the whole prince thing a lot more than I do." And he thought it was true, even with the fact that Roman was taking care of himself out in the middle of the woods and had learned way more essential life skills than Virgil. He held himself like he had been trained to perfection for his entire life, whereas Virgil hadn't begun learning the ways of his heritage until a little later in his childhood.

One of Roman's brows pulled upwards while still managing to appear drawn together, his forehead creasing. "I live in the woods and work in a mine," he pointed out, which drew a snort and a very un-princely chuckle from Virgil.

"Okay. You got me there, but—" He waved his hand at Roman pointedly— "You're just nice. All—" He put on a voice meant to mock Roman's dramatic flare, but higher pitched— "'Oh look a damsel in distress! I must save them! Whatever will I do?!' And you've got a slight accent." The tacked-on bit at the end had him donning a teasing smile and sitting back again.

Roman glowered, looking almost as brooding as his stormy opponent. "And you're all doom and gloom and evil smirks," he accused, waving his finger at him in a point. "Plus, if you think of me as the type to rescue damsels, would you not technically be that damsel?" It was Roman's turn to relax back on his hands with a self-satisfied smirk in their game of teasing, rather than their actual game of mancala, which had been momentarily paused.

"Oh I'm the damsel? You going to kiss me then?" Virgil joked, though inside his head, something told him that's what he wanted from Roman.

Oh god.

Why did he want to kiss him?! Where did that urge even come from??? That was not normal.

"Maybe to shut you up," he laughingly brushed off, trying his hardest to not get flustered because it was a joke. Virgil was joking. He wasn't serious, right? Right? Zeus smite him.

And shut up, Virgil did. His few pathetic attempts to retort, opening and closing his mouth, failed. This was bad. This was so so so bad. Of course Roman had to go about making it worse by grinning to himself, tilting his head to the side, and swooping his hand across the board to move his beans.

When he looked up again from his thoughts, he gave a slight pout. "I do not sound like that," he brought up, still having not gotten over it.

Virgil didn't respond right away. At least not verbally, anyways. He did, however, look up at Roman through his eyelashes with a smirk that had Roman's heart skipping a beat and his words stilling on his lips. He wasn't even sure what he had been about to say, just knew that whatever the words were, they stuttered to a halt as he took in the tugging smirk of the smaller prince in front of him.

After a moment of smirking, Virgil took his turn, moving his beans with careful, delicate movements. "I'd say it's the most accurate impression I could ever attempt to make," he mused quietly, his mind still reeling from having - jokingly or not - asked Roman if he was going to kiss him. Boys didn't kiss each other. That wasn't a normal thing to even think about. What was going on with him? He inwardly worked to convince himself that he was only having these strange thoughts, these strange feelings, because this was the first person he was socializing with outside of his sheltered palace life. Because this man - this prince - was being kind to him. Nothing more.

But as he watched the movement of false-offense and bit back a smile at the offended noise that came from the other prince, a fondness grew warm in his heart that told him - even though he wasn't willing to listen - that this was so much more than a simple reaction to kindness.


	15. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan gets an impromptu lesson on how to ride a horse.

The guards of the castle could have sworn the guttural scream rang throughout the entire kingdom. Even the coldest of trained killers flinched, a collective noise of jostled armor being the second loudest sound in the vast structure. Something had happened. It was the shattering glass and commotion that alerted all the guards to carry out the job they never thought they'd actually be needed for, and now— now this. Nearly the entire staff stood at attention before their trembling king, his breath coming in heaves that expanded his chest wildly, and not a single soul could tell if he was coursing with fury or despair. The cause?

His mirror had been broken.

No one had ever thought much of it, though plenty were suspicious and had a plethora of conspiracy theories. The item had been brought to the kingdom with the king before he was even crowned, and he treated it like it was a person. Some said they often even heard him _talking_ to it. Everyone always got a weird feeling about the inanimate object, and now they all witnessed their king _beyond_ upset about its destruction, so why was it so important?

The reason for his despair lay outside the castle walls, running hand in hand with a certain huntsman. Their feet pounded against the ground in synchronized speed, Logan gasping for air with burning lungs and an aching body, but the pain didn't bother him at all. It just reminded him he was _free_. It also reminded him it'd been about eighteen years since he'd done any sort of exercise whatsoever. Not only that, but he'd had asthma as a human, and supposed it was back now that _he_ was back.

Patton, on the other hand, ran normally, the burn of his lungs only minor and his body aching only a small amount, for he was used to being on his feet all day. Even in the midst of their frantic, panicked running, Patton found his mind wandering. How long had this man been trapped in the mirror? He ran as if he was unsure on his own feet, much like a young fawn, as if he had been trapped for several years at the very least. And yet... And yet he only appeared to be perhaps twenty years old, only a year younger than Patton himself.

Hearing the shaky gasping of the man as his lungs struggled to grasp onto any air, Patton quickly pulled him into the forest. Hidden amidst the copse of trees in case the guards had caught up with them already, Patton turned to fully face Logan, concern making his blue eyes shine.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, barely a whisper of breath. Logan nodded, his hand clutching the front of his shirt as if that would make it any easier to breathe. His throat burned as he gasped for air with his back to a tree.

"Where... where are we... going?" he asked between gasps. ' _How much farther?_ ' he wanted to ask, but it was too difficult even to ask the one question he already had. It wasn't until a moment passed that Logan realized something... Patton had asked him a question.

A question that he hadn't been forced to answer, the verbal response hadn't been prompted from him as it would have been mere minutes ago, as it had been for the past eighteen years. He was well and truly free.

"My house near the edge of the village. Luckily we can get there by staying in the trees. I know the way. I have two horses we can—" Patton's response was promptly halted by Logan giving a laugh of almost disbelief mixed in with wheezing breath. What was he— why was he laughing?

Logan found Patton's look of bewilderment amusing. He probably thought his laughing was random and odd for the circumstances they were in, so an explanation from him was probably called for (even if he felt like his chest was being sat on at the moment.) "I'm free," he said aloud. "Eighteen years and I'm finally free, Patton. I can feel your pulse between my fingers—" He held up their still-interlaced fingers— "I'm in the woods... I'm pretty sure I'm having an asthma attack," he rambled as if these human things were the most glorious occurrences in the world, gasping for breath as he did so. He really needed to get his breathing in order. His lungs were highly inflamed and it felt like he was breathing through the smallest funnel in the world, but he was too excited to care.

"Eighteen—" Patton couldn't believe that number. Sure, he'd expected a _few_ years, for he'd noticed the mirror on one of the first trips to the throne room, but eighteen? That was nearly his entire life. So had Logan been trapped as a child, or had he not aged? Judging from the fact that the king was nearly forty, he assumed the latter. That was horrible.

"An asthma attack, imagine that! And I haven't aged at all. I still have time to do things. God you're a _genius_ ," he exclaimed. Patton really was a genius. First the pig heart, now coming back to free him from Dante's grasp... it was incredible— made him just want to kiss him.

Maybe his brain had thought Patton was Dante for the briefest of seconds, back out in the real world for the first time in years, his hand being held tight. Or maybe he knew very well what he was doing, but before he had time to gather any sense, he had yanked Patton forward and let their lips collide in excited, passionate, and needy affection.

Patton let out a muffled noise of surprise, his eyes going wide as he was kissed. He had been kissed before, by a childhood friend - a stable boy - but it hadn't been like this. Hadn't _felt_ like this. It had been nice, sure, but it hadn't left his entire being thrumming in excitement, his heart skipping a beat.

It only took a fraction of a second before he closed his eyes, relaxing, and he was kissing him back. The taller male's lips were impossibly soft, and although his movements weren't precise - it having been much too long since the last time he had kissed anyone - they still filled Patton with an indescribable warmth.

Logan pulled away from Patton after a long moment, his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes wide in surprise at himself. At his boldness. He didn't think he had been that bold even with Dante, and yet... And yet there was something about this beautiful hunter who inspired an excited sort of passion in him.

"M-my... my apolo--"

He was interrupted with lips on his again, and it was his turn to make a noise of surprise.

Patton thought this man must think him crazy, even if he had been the one to kiss him first. After all, they had just met _that_ day. And if Patton weren't such a hopeless believer in romance and love-at-first-sight, he would've called _himself_ insane for committing treason, freeing a magic mirror, and kissing him all in one night as they were fleeing the kingdom.

Screw it. Patton's middle name was crazy.

The two of them broke apart with pink cheeks and sheepishly surprised expressions - whether they were surprised with themselves or each other, neither of them was sure. Patton was the first of them to speak, breaking the silence with a soft, "Follow me," before he took Logan's hand and began leading him once more.

They moved at a much slower pace than before, as they were hidden in the woods that Patton traipsed through so often and they didn't have to worry about being found immediately, though they were still briskly walking. Patton expertly led Logan between trees, not following the natural paths in the forest to further ensure that they weren't found, and before long, Patton's house came into view just outside the forest.

It was a small hut beside a barn with a large plot of land, the largest in a village of close-set homes. A lantern hung from a hook outside the door, having been lit by one of his neighbors so he wasn't wandering in the dark. With a small sigh of relief that he didn't hear the clopping thuds of hooves on the dirt road that would have told him the palace guards were near, he pulled Logan out of the forest and into his house.

"We have to be quick," he said quietly in the hut, the flickering light from the lantern that he had grabbed on their way in illuminating the close space.

Logan nodded, trying to take it all in and screw his head on straight. Though that was impossible, for he himself was in no way straight. At least he'd somehow calmed his breathing down on the way here with the gentle help of Patton— how was anyone so gentle?— and he wasn't as flippantly emotional anymore. Though he felt more emotions coming on. It was proving to be a lot harder to process his freedom than he'd imagined.

Turning in a circle around himself, he took in the hut, small even for being a hut, comfortable yet a vague air of loneliness surrounding it. It seemed Patton was by himself. No parents, obviously no wife, no other distant family. Just... him. For someone so affectionate and soft, it was hard to believe.

He cleared his throat. "I apologize for earlier. I didn't ask, and had no way of knowing if you were like me or not. I got... a little carried away," he spoke up sheepishly. When was he ever sheepish?

At that, Patton turned his head over his shoulder from where he was digging through the cupboards, cramming things into bags. The lantern cast a beautiful glow on his face, which twisted up in a sort of youthful fae-like amusement, and he gave a fond look. "It's okay," he giggled, "And I am, so there wasn't a problem. It was cute." He turned back to what he was doing both to hurry and hide his blush. This was the most eventful thing to happen in his life; so much different from the quiet routine he was used to.

Logan had never been so red in his life. Well... that was a lie: there was this one time Dante— _never mind._

When he looked up again, Patton had vanished from the kitchen, but he could hear rustling around from where he suspected the bedroom was, so he knew he hadn't been left. What was going to happen now? Where would they go? He was free, they were fleeing, Dante might figure out what had really happened and come after them...

What did he want?

Well that wasn't so hard. They still needed to free the kingdom from the suffocating grip of dark magic, so he'd have to take down Dante before he destroyed it. Logan knew so much inside information, but would that be enough for another kingdom to take him down? He had _magic_ , after all. The only thing that could counter that was more—

 ** _Magic_**.

If Dante's mother was still alive - which he suspected she was unless she'd fallen ill - he could go to her for help. Everything Dante knew, he'd learned from her and her books, regardless of if he was much more powerful than them now and had taken the only book on dark magic. Besides, even if she didn't have the power to stop him, she had the books and she had connections to people who could without a doubt. That's where they'd go.

"Ready?" Patton urged, somehow directly in front of him now and studying his face. The lantern should have given him away, but Logan was in too deep of thought.

He startled, stuttering out a, "Y-yes." Then he gathered himself, straightening his posture, and donning a steely gaze. "I know where we can go," he announced.

Patton's eyes searched his own, making Logan feel like he was under a microscope, yet somehow in a good way. He'd felt the same while in the mirror, but this— he could dissolve under these eyes, free from tarnishing and dulling caused by dark magic. And he found himself tripping into the clouds again. Never would he have thought he could feel _this_ again— this thing he used to have with his Dante— but here it was staring him plain in the face.

"Where?" Patton inquired, grabbing his hand again with bags slung over his shoulder, pulling him out the door again. Even the way he dragged him around was gentle.

"Caemas. Dante's mother is queen there. She taught him how to use magic, and he learned everything from her books before he got out of hand. She's the only one who can help bring him down," he explained, trying to keep up with Patton on the way to the barn. With the way his feet made steady padding thuds on the ground, it reminded him of how everything felt so new again that it was almost overwhelming.

Patton paused for the briefest of seconds. "I wasn't planning on a full revolution— just on getting you out and escaping— but... if it's what's best for the kingdom... I'm in," he agreed, then added with a laugh, "It's not like I can get out of this now anyways."

There was a strong determination Logan could feel even from his limited view of Patton that was softened not even by his heart. It was strengthened by it, even, the source that fueled him to be so bold. It was both lucky and a shame that he'd been thrust into this plight of life or death they were in.

The hunter led Logan to the stables beside the house, and once they were inside, the two horses huffed, whinnying softly. Patton released Logan's hand and handed him the lantern before going to saddle up the horses and attach the saddle bags with enough feed for them for a couple days, not knowing how long they would be away from access to stables. Within a matter of minutes - easily the shortest amount of time he had taken to saddle one horse, let alone two - both horses were fully ready, and Patton turned to Logan once more.

His heart practically stilled when he saw the soft face Logan watched him with, as the flickering lantern light illuminated his face. Patton had seen his beauty in the mirror, had seen the gentility in the moment after the mirror shattered and before they ran. But that hadn't come close to the beautiful tenderness he watched him with as he tended the horses.

Seeing that he had been caught looking at Patton the way he had been, Logan averted his gaze, the pink that dusted across his cheeks perfectly illuminated by the lantern in his hand. "Are we ready to go?"

"I meant to ask, you know how to ride a horse, right?"

Logan nodded uncertainly. "It's been a long time, but I believe I should be able to manage just fine."

With a short nod of his head, he put one foot in the stirrup, and swung the other over with leaping, graceful ease and agility. Logan could only hope to resist ogling him. Triumphant in his conquest, Patton beamed down at Logan from the top of his mount like a Valkyrie on a Pegasus, causing him to swallow and quickly follow suit in getting up on his own horse. It was less graceful, and it took two attempts, but he made it into the saddle with a dark blush of embarrassment.

Patton cocked his head at him, hoping he'd be able to ride properly, but his horses were well-trained for special hunting occasions, so he should be fine. "On three?" he smirked challengingly, reminiscing about Logan's ever-so-tender, calm instruction from earlier.

"On three," Logan confirmed. His eyes glinted.

Horse ribs were lightly kicked. Reigns were snapped. Hooves pounded their escape into the dirt.

All of these things... on the count of three. 


	16. Ignited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman comes home from the mines early... nursing several burns from an accident with flint.

It had been a normal day; Roman had set out for work early in the morning, leaving Virgil alone in the hut that they shared directly after breakfast, and everything went as it did every other day. Until it didn't.

He had heard tales from those at the market who knew what he did for a living - tales of spontaneous fires breaking out in the mines - but he had never believed them, had never stopped to think that such a thing could ever happen when he was in the mines he occupied so often. Roman supposed that he should have listened, should have stayed away from the tunnel rumored to house the flint used in many villages to start bonfires. Or perhaps he should have simply left when he began to smell the foul rotten-egg scent that wafted through the enclosed space.

He should have, but he didn't.

One spark was all it took.

One spark of his pickaxe on the flint and the air ignited around him in a red blaze. He threw his arm up to cover his face on pure instinct alone, but burning pain erupted over his chest. The fire didn't last long, merely a flash, but it was enough that when it all subsided, his arms and chest were burnt and blistered under the singed fabric of his shirt.

Roman stumbled out of the cave on shaky legs, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks. He just wanted to collapse, wanted to curl up on the ground and do anything he could to relieve this heat over his skin, but he had to get somewhere where he was safe to do so. He had to get home.

***

Back at home, Virgil yawned, rolling over onto his stomach and bunching the pillow up under his arms. Exhaling once more, he breathed in the scent of the bed, and he knew that as time wore on, it was beginning to get more and more comfortable, feeling at home, and feeling like... just Roman. Simply Roman. Every single fiber of the sheets and the pillow contained his scent, a sort of earthy, almost coal-like smell with hints of flowers and herbs from soaps he bought in the market.

For someone who lived in the woods and worked in the mines, he ended up smelling really good after he returned from upstairs, having come home for the evening. Or maybe that was just a last-night thing. He didn't know, but— _lord, why did he care so much that the bed had so many remnants of Roman?!_ He might as well just ask Roman to come join him if he liked it _that_ much. And as soon as he blushed at that thought, his mind betraying him once more, he groaned.

He crammed his face into the pillow, quietly screaming, and dragging himself up to go downstairs in simply one of Roman's night shirts, (it was soft and big and also smelled like Roman. Besides, he didn't have any other sleep clothes), and his undergarments, knowing he didn't get home until later that day, and would already be gone. A smile worked its way onto his face at the sight of breakfast already all laid out for him. There was brisket and eggs kept warm over a small fire that hadn't been going too long, and a pear sliced up on a plate not too far from it. This, again, was somehow nicer than even any palace meals he'd been served. More personal.

After plating the warm food and putting out the fire, he sat at the small table, basking in the warm sunlight from the window, and hummed to himself as he ate pear slices and thought about Roman. He wondered what he was doing right now. What was the mine like? How many people did he work with? There were so many trivial questions and giddy smiles as he ate alone.

***

Roman stumbled home with the morning sun rising high in the sky, the warmth of it making his burns ache and sting. Every step made his legs tremble, his knees threatening to buckle. Why did the walk home have to be so long? When the small hut finally came into view between the thicket, he all but sobbed in relief. He dropped his pickaxe in the grass, surprised that he had managed to carry it this far, and rushed home.

As soon as the door pushed open, Virgil practically jumped out of his skin, his hands going to pull down the hem of Roman's night shirt he wore, becoming painfully aware of the fact that his undergarments were visible. Any attempts at covering himself, however, stopped when he saw the state the other prince was in.

He jumped to his feet, concern flashing in his eyes. "What happened?"

"Fire," he replied simply, taking a seat on the couch as he set about working to slowly pull his shirt off to get a better look at the burns. Every move ached, and he let out a hiss of pain, his face scrunching as he tried to pull one arm out of its sleeve.

"Here, let me." The smaller prince stepped forward to sit on his knees between Roman's ankles, and gently took hold of his shirt, slowly pulling it up off of him. It stuck in some of the places it was singed, and with a wince of sympathy, Virgil had to gently work it away from Roman's skin, his cool fingers brushing against the warmth around the burns.

Roman bit his tongue to keep from hissing after the first few noises blew past his lips at the feeling of his shirt tugging at the wounds. He hadn't expected to find a worse pain than aching muscles and blisters at the end of the day, but here he was, stinging and aching and trembling. His fingers were digging into whatever part of the couch he could find, bearing through the pain and blessing every god there might be that Virgil had showed up at his cabin, or else he may have had to do this alone.

"Sorry," Virgil winced at one particularly rough patch. There were only a few, luckily nothing extremely bad, but they all looked rough. "What happened?" The last of his shirt came up and over his head after Virgil fumbled with the laces for a moment. "There," he announced to himself.

"Axe struck flint," Roman mumbled, "Sparked a fire."

Virgil cursed under his breath out of shocked sympathy, and as Roman watched him, he wasn't focusing on the pain any longer, instead on his beautiful eyes that he hadn't been able to get over since he first laid eyes on him. It wasn't just that they were smoothly polished, but that they somehow expressed such a heightened gentility and care. It was like Virgil held all his emotion in his eyes alone. Even if he had the body language and short tempered-ness of someone who appeared to be angry, as long as his eyes were dancing with amusement, Roman would know how he really felt.

And like Virgil's mother used to do for him— a thing that had always made him laugh or scrunch his nose, and that comforted him— he licked his thumb and brought it up to wipe a smudge of grime off Roman's cheek. Though once he got there, he couldn't bring himself to pull his hand away. Why was Roman looking at him like that? There was something in those green orbs of his, something too layered and deep for Virgil to be able to pick apart just by looking at him. But what had he done to merit such a look?

It was then that he became painfully aware of their state of partial undress. Aware of how Roman, although injured, didn't have a shirt on. He could feel the coldness of the floor pressing into his shins and the tops of his feet where he rested on them, a reminder that he was the most indecent he'd ever been in front of someone— whose job it wasn't to deal with those sorts of things, anyways. His Adam's apple bobbed heavily with a swallow, doing his best to try and keep his eyes from trailing down to Roman's bare, reddened chest or the way his sides dipped just slightly inwards before curving back out at his hips. He was perfectly fit from the mines, yet he ate well, paving out a perfect balance that blessed him with a muscular softness rather than him being stiff and bony.

Virgil was probably a little bony himself.

That single thought that finally didn't have to do entirely with Roman snapped him out of the trance, eyes widening along with the coloring of his cheeks as his hand withdrew from his soft, warm cheek. "D-Do you have any herbs or ointment or anything I can use to soothe these? I don't know much about medicines, and it might mean you have to go into town— I would go with you, but I can't risk being seen," he babbled, lucky he was at least coherent.

Roman blinked, clearing his throat quietly before averting his gaze from the beautiful eyes that had entranced him so. "I, uh... I have some healing salve in the bathroom. The woman I purchased it from said it's good for burns, cuts, and blisters. It's in the cabinet under the sink."

The smaller boy paused only a moment before nodding and getting to his feet. "I'll be right back," he noted softly before heading up the stairs to the bathroom.

He found the salve easily enough, and he debated for a moment changing out of his sleep clothes, or at least putting some pants on so he wasn't so exposed, but he didn't want to take the time to get dressed while Roman was downstairs in pain. So he made his way back downstairs and reclaimed his spot kneeling on the floor between Roman's ankles, and he looked up at the other prince in concern. "Will this hurt when I put it on you?" he asked with a quiet sort of curiosity, to which Roman shook his head.

"I've used it before for blisters and for a small burn from cooking. It doesn't hurt. Just kind of, uh... Just get some on your fingers, and you'll have to... rub it in..." His words were hesitant, his cheeks lightly flushed in a way that wouldn't have been visible if Virgil wasn't mere inches away from him. He was all too aware of the fact that Virgil was kneeling between his legs, in one of _his_ shirts and his undergarments, and he himself was shirtless telling Virgil he was going to have to rub his chest.

Virgil had no idea why Roman was being awkward about him rubbing this onto his wounds or why his cheeks had suddenly painted themselves pink, but he ignored this, instead nodding his head and going to carefully open the jar. He dipped two fingers into the salve, dabbing it gently onto his arms first, then rubbing it in with incredibly light fingers, scared he'd hurt him. Then he got to his chest. And by then he was a silent, blushing mess.

Okay so maybe he understood why Roman was being awkward.

His hand was slick and Roman's skin was warm and they were both half-undressed and _oh god_. They were so close... Virgil had never been this close to anyone before with so much bare skin. He was going to die. He was actually going to die.

No, he wasn't. There was no reason to die, nothing to cause such a strong reaction to Roman being shirtless, and no explanation as to why it affected him so. He was merely embarrassed at not having pants on, right? Books and plays never showed anything about two men being together— unless you counted the fact that all the females were played by males in the theatre— so he didn't think it was right. It couldn't possibly be right.

When Virgil's fingers - having been freshly dipped into the salve again - gently rubbed over one of the worse burns, Roman sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, making a hissing sound as his chest tensed. Virgil looked up at him then, apology at the ready, and therein lay his mistake. Looking up at Roman's face while his fingers hovered, slick, hardly an inch away from his bare chest, their faces mere inches apart.

"S-sorry," he stuttered out with pink cheeks. "Are you okay?"

No, no he wasn't okay. There was an adorable half-dressed prince between his legs rubbing his bare chest with slick fingers.

He nodded anyways. "Just sore."

Virgil nodded as well, a single bob of his head before he averted his gaze from the brilliant green eyes that were gazing back at him. He resumed applying the salve with gentle, hesitant fingers, and after what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, he finished with a small sigh and replaced the lid on the canister.

As Roman watched him, all he could think about was capturing his lips against his own, but he knew that wouldn't be fair to Virgil. He didn't even know if it would be welcomed _at all_. Besides, not only had he only met Virgil a little less than three days ago, the circumstances in which they found themselves in at the moment wouldn't be respectful to the smaller, somewhat angrier prince. He had no pants on after all, and that was because Roman had barged in here wounded. No, this wasn't how he'd have Virgil's first kiss going.

If anything, Roman could find him a nice maiden from the village and set them up because surely Virgil didn't want to have to live alone with _him_ the rest of his life without ever finding love. That'd be terrible...

And it was exactly what he was doing himself.

Gods, what would he _do_?

Virgil looked back up at him then with a question on his lips. "Do I need to bandage them?" he inquired. His concern was endearing, really, though Roman could handle himself. _Would_ handle and had _always_ handled himself.

"I've got it," he assured, already scooting down on the couch so Virgil wasn't between his legs, and going to stand, everything hurting as he did. It would only be his arms he would bandage, just so he didn't get the salve on anything and kept the burns protected, but he'd let his chest wound breathe for now until he had to wrap it tomorrow if he decided to work.

"Are you sure?" Virgil worried after him.

Roman turned his head over his shoulder at the base of the stairs, a view of a perfect-looking Virgil meeting his eyes. His dark hair contrasted heavily against his fair skin, as did his eyes, and Roman's shirt pooled delicately over his thighs even if his undergarments already covered them. "Yeah. I've got it," he confirmed.

Oh, if he didn't find a way to get over this boy...


	17. History Repeats Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grieving Logan's "death," Dante plots two others.

Plotting. Careful, thought-out, precise _plotting_. That was what made Dante dangerous. Not the rage bubbling up inside him— no, he could tamp that down— and not even his dark magic. With magic, there were always mistakes - there was always some Achilles heel, there were always consequences - so without _wit_ , he was nothing but a mere child playing with fire.

The infuriated king paced the throne room, heels obnoxiously clicking their steadily echoing rhythm back and forth, back and forth, bouncing off the walls.

His Logan was gone. Logan was gone. He was—

He shook his head.

The only person who would have known to go for Logan would have been that traitorous hunter who had helped _Prince Virgil_. That nuisance of a child, that boy who hadn't had to work for anything at all, the one who had _hurt Logan_ , the one Logan had loved more than him, the one that Logan had never gotten over losing even though he wasn't even their son. And now he was fairer than Dante as if to rub salt in the wound, now Logan had been reminded of him and had fought to protect him these past few days.

It had gotten him killed. Helping that pathetic hunter and the prince had gotten him _killed_.

Everything flooded him all at once: the guttural urge to scream until he lost his voice, the grief, the slight hint of regret buried deep within him— clouded by everything else until he wasn't certain it existed at all— the need to sob until these feelings were emptied from him, and even possibly the feeling that life had no point any longer. Everything he'd done was to reach that future with Logan. Or so he'd thought... **No**. No it _had_ been for Logan.

So he paced— that incessant clicking sound of his heels bouncing back at him— and he thought for the longest time. And eventually, he realized the only solution to his issues: they had to die. He couldn't allow them to escape what they'd done to Logan: how they'd ruined all of Dante's hard work, destroyed his future, and utterly _crushed_ him by leaving him alone. He was alone. Then again, it'd been this way for a very long time, regardless of the fact he could force Logan to answer questions as if it were a real conversation. As if that would replace an actual relationship with the man he loved more than anything.

But how could he ensure that the traitors met their demise? The bleak future that he had seen painted across Logan's surface didn't seem to matter so much to the king anymore, not now that his Logan was gone. For all he cared, the world could **burn**. And he knew now that he could kill them without remorse, the only thing left to find the answers to were: how, and who first. Logan would have the answer... if he were here. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Logan _wasn't_ here anymore. That pathetic excuse for a hunter had killed him, and for what? What had Logan done to deserve such an end?

Dante decided that he wanted— no, _needed_ — to get rid of the hunter first. The young Prince Virgil could wait. Something in him despised the idea of killing the prince anyways, though he couldn't quite pinpoint why that was. With the decision to kill the hunter first in his mind, the king realized that he would need to perform a tracking spell in order to _find_ the hunter. Surely he wouldn't have been stupid enough to go back to his village.

The king made his way to the battle strategy maps in the small, private room off the throne room. He kept his magic books and supplies in here as well, as nobody but the captain of the guard and a few appointed allies were permitted to be in this room— aside from himself, of course. Once inside the strategy room, he carefully selected the correct book from the shelf before getting to work on the tracking spell. It didn't take much work, really; it was simple in comparison to the spells he had done in the past.

And in no time at all, the surface of the map illuminated the small room, and the light slowly concentrated itself in two spots. One of the spots, the same brilliant blue of the hunter's eyes, was moving, much more rapidly than a human could move on foot. He was on horseback, or had stowed away in a cart somewhere. The other spot, however, the same violet of the prince's cape, was perfectly stationary, nestled in the center of the woods near the castle, less than a day's trek. It appeared as though the young prince hadn't gone far at all.

So, the prince would go first, then. Fine by him.

He waved away the spell, storming off to the well near the prince's room, a place he knew the boy had frequently spent his days. Viewing him would be easier this way because it was both tied to him and a source of water for easy reflection. It was almost too perfect. Well... it would have been perfect if it didn't mean that Logan lay shattered on the throne room floor because of the very people he was intent on locating, as if hurting Logan once wasn't enough for their "son".

The first thing he observed when he arrived were the roses. Roses. It seemed the boy had kept them alive long after his mother had passed, recalling the very day he was taught how to tend them because it was the very same moment in which Dante had scared him off, never to return to that room. Sure, they'd spoken here and there on matters pertaining to Virgil's limited duties as a prince, but never as father and son, and never alone.

With a sweep of his hand, the vibrant colors all went black with rot and wilted, the stems and vines and thorns becoming dry and crisp. There. That was better.

Back to the matter at hand...

He threw the necessary items into the water deep below until the liquid rose up a mere few inches from the top of the stone walls, and he focused with a few uttered words. The water rippled with the effect of his spell, shimmering and flickering, before it finally solidified to reveal the prince... with another. It seemed he'd found the company of a young man, and they were playing Mancala... how _sweet_. Dante bit down on his tongue just enough to make it hurt without bleeding— he wasn't in the mood for lasting discomfort— and growled at the scene.

It was Virgil and his dark hair, looking too much like Logan even though he wasn't his. It was the dramatic theatricality with which the new boy spoke and moved, his light hair, the teasing sarcasm and shy looks between them. It was how it reminded him far too much of when he was that young, that in love, that _untainted_. And though he wanted to shake with rage at what he was seeing, he only felt remorse for all he'd lost— both long ago and recently— and in that moment knew that he couldn't kill Virgil.

He was the last bit of Logan that Dante had.

Perhaps that was the reason he despised the idea of killing him.

 _"Oh **I'm** the damsel? You going to kiss me then?"_ Virgil's teasing voice, full of more joy than Dante had ever heard it before, echoed out of the water.

**Wait**. Were they— were they flirting? It certainly seemed like it with how the pale boy's skin was suddenly lit up with a pink color and how the prince was in the same state, though both tried to hide it behind smugness and pride.

_"Maybe to shut you up."_

Oh? Well, that was interesting. It seemed the boy had a crush.

Maybe he wouldn't _kill_ Prince Virgil, per se, but he could still make him suffer. Dante knew whose trust the boy had, he knew how to make Virgil feel the betrayal Logan must have when his own lover poisoned him, and knew that for the prince's role in his death— how he prevented Logan from ever escaping back into his arms— that he had to know how that felt. He would see that not even the strongest of love could save him, just as had been the case with his Logan. He would sleep, trapped in darkness, forever. Because true love's kiss wasn't real or else it would have saved Logan.

A white dove landed on the edge of the well, crooning at the water, and ruffling its feathers until it was puffed up. The feathers settled, and so did Dante's surprise. He'd never been this close to a wild bird, let alone a white dove. He decided he could use a new companion.

The king waved his fingers, the bird turning a chilling black, and it came to rest on his shoulder seemingly of its own accord. Animals were easy to manipulate. Satisfied with the small talons barely digging into his shoulder through his cape and shirt, he turned and marched back indoors.

His arm reached out and plucked a single fruit from the garden tree as he walked past.

He had an apple to poison.


	18. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton stop to rest after the seemingly endless day they'd had, cuddling under the stars.

"Patton, we should stop," Logan gently urged. He himself wasn't tired, but Patton had been awake for who knows how long, and it wasn't exactly an easy day. The poor man kept nodding off _on_ his horse, and Logan didn't know how much longer he had before he fell off.

Patton opened his mouth to protest, but Logan stopped him. "We are a significant distance away, and I highly doubt Dante would come after us tonight, especially if he thinks I'm dead. We should stop," he restated.Yet still the hunter looked sleepily stubborn, chewing on his lip with his eyes directed ahead as if he could see more than a few feet, causing Logan to sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave him an earnest look, pleading, "At least come over onto my horse so you don't fall off. If you'd really like to keep going, I'll manage the horses and you can sleep."

"No, no. We can stop," Patton conceded. He yawned, a thing Logan couldn't help but stare at, entranced. It was small and cute and— and he had kissed the very mouth that was shaped into a tiny 'O'.

As if he didn't notice Logan staring, he informed while rubbing blearily at his eyes to keep them open, bumping his circular glasses up, "I didn't bring anything to secure them in an open space like this, so we'll have to move to the trees."

The ex-mirror gave a short nod, veering his horse to the left. It wasn't hard to reach the trees— they stayed beside them for guidance the entire time— and he reached them in but a few moments with the soft sounds of Patton's horse trotting behind him. Awkwardly, he began to try to dismount, but found himself deciding it was better to observe Patton because he couldn't figure out how to do it for the life of him. A small giggle to his right brought dark red heat to his face.

Flawlessly, Patton swung down from the horse, approaching his own side, and looking up at Logan innocently. God he was perfect from this height— from any height, really. "Come here often?" Patton chimed with a grin, chuckling a little more to himself. "Here. Let me help you."

Logan was whipped.

After a second of scrubbing at his face to attempt to control the furious blushing, he took Patton's offered hands. Though they were calloused and rough in the places he assumed his weapons dug into his skin the most, his hands were small; smooth everywhere else. He steadily brought his opposite leg to meet his other on one side of the large animal. And with the gentle yet firm hold of Patton, he was able to jump down from his mount, landing directly flush against him, stumbling a little and throwing his arms around Patton's neck to steady himself. The blonde pulled him close. "Hi handsome," he cooed with a small laugh at how his clumsiness had brought them so close.

Logan cleared his throat, not having been flirted with in... forever. This proximity was almost foreign to him, a distant memory, almost a dream. "Hell— hello, Patton," he stuttered. The heat in his cheeks should have felt uncomfortable, but it only brought him a warm reprieve from the cold glass he'd been for so long.

With a soft chuckle and a flush of his own cheeks, Patton released Logan and stepped aside, taking the leads of the horses and tying them to a low-hanging branch of a tree. As much as he seemed to fluster Logan, Logan's reactions flustered him as well. Watching the redness paint itself across the boy's face— even more beautiful than it had been within the confines of the blue-tinted mirror— made him realize just how taken he was with him.

And that in and of itself didn't make all too much sense, considering he _had_ only just met him this afternoon. But, he supposed, the heart wants what the heart wants.

Once the horses were secured, Patton opened one of the saddle bags and grabbed a handful of feed, first letting one horse eat, and then the second. He yawned again, feeling fatigue weighing on every part of him as his heavy eyelids fluttered shut, his head nodding forward before he snapped himself awake.

Having recovered from his flusteredness in the relative silence— the only noise being that of the wind rustling the leaves above them and the soft munching of the horses— Logan stepped up beside Patton and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "You need rest," he advised softly.

He turned his head gently towards him, giving a soft and sleepy look. "Do mirrors sleep?" Patton hummed. With a small scoot closer, he rested his head on Logan's shoulder.

Logan looked down at him with a certain fondness. "No, but humans do," he mused. To demonstrate, he yawned, scrunching his nose down at Patton who gave a small, breathy laugh, and quickly stretched up to catch Logan's mouth as it came to a close.

The kiss produced a furious blush to contrast against dark hair. Logan wasn't used to this. He was used to showing this on a surface— _being_ this moment, even the small press of lips to the glass surface from Dante as if he were simply kissing his forehead— but not getting to be _in_ it. The difference was astounding— breathtaking in a way that reminded him of the stars.

Patton _was_ his star. That bright blue twinkle that had lain just beyond his reach and had shown him the way home.

Patton tilted his head, sweetly admiring the adorable look with which his magic mirror man gazed upon him, his soft cheeks perfectly pink. "I'm glad I found you," he chimed, "I feel like I've known you all my life." Loneliness could bring anyone together, and when two lonely souls found each other, he supposed they reached out with ease.

Another rare smile graced Logan's face. "I'm glad you did too." He leaned down and pressed their noses gently together. "Come on, Star, let's rest. We can talk more in the morning, and if I'm not mistaken, we'll reach the kingdom early evening tomorrow."

 _Star_. The nickname brought a small smile to Patton's lips as he dug into the saddle bag that didn't have the horse feed in it. He pulled out a blanket and after it was laid out on the forest floor to make lying down more comfortable, he dug out two apples and a water flask and took a seat on the blanket.

Logan sat down beside him, and the two of them ate their small meal in quiet, with Patton leaning against his side. It was so strange, Logan thought, that after what had seemed an eternity, this was where life had brought him. Sitting on a blanket on the forest floor a few hours outside Caemas's walls, eating fruit with an adorable hunter.

He rested his head on top of Patton's as they ate, peering up through the branches of the trees at the stars that twinkled so brightly in the sky. He was reminded of his times in this very forest— albeit a little closer to Caemas— with Dante in their youth. Laid out on the soft grass just off the dirt path used by hunters and their horses, counting the stars they could see and tracing constellations.

He could never have that again.

Not with Dante, anyways.

But, he surmised, he didn't _want_ that with Dante anymore. The king wasn't the man he had fallen in love with, and he hadn't been in a very long time: a thing Logan had come to accept years ago. He would much rather have that with Patton now. If Patton wanted it, that is.

And if they survived long enough to build it.

He looked down at Patton as the core of his apple slipped from his fingertips to see a softly sleeping face. Logan smiled yet again, his mouth finally seeming to memorize the movement after having forgotten it for so long, the muscles practically having grown weak and stiff from disuse. With gentle arms so unfamiliar with being able to touch another, he held Patton as if the slightest movement would break him, laying them down to where Patton stayed closely against his side, and the blonde nuzzled further into him once he'd settled. His ears couldn't help but heat up.

Logan watched the stars like this. He was exhausted, his limbs ached from running, and the ride here hadn't been gentle on him either, yet he still kept his eyes wide open for fear he'd wake up from this unbelievable dream— that he'd be back in the dark void with the world just out of his reach— and in appreciation of the moment.

His eyes were blessed with the silhouettes of rustling trees thick with leaves against a black canvas lit by a sea of stars that seemed to stretch for eternity; his ears gifted with the sweet music of nature, crickets, birds of the night, and the soft breathing of Patton; the scent of the trees, the dirt, all the plants of the forest floor, and simply the night overall mingling in his nose; and the feeling of Patton's warmth, the rough material of the clothes he wore, the ground beneath him, the cool breeze, and— and hot liquid rolling off his face and stinging his eyes. It was a comforting sort of feeling— to cry with such a sense of overwhelming relief from the pain of his previous troubles— one that he was entirely at peace with.

God, he hadn't cried like this in... years, much less gone about it happily. Dante had bled all his tears dry years ago until all he could muster up was numbness or anger. But things were changing— he was _free_ now, and he had more than he'd ever had before, the stars just above his head again as they should be.

The stars above his head, and a warm body in his arms. 


	19. The Ride to Caemas Yields Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan had nearly forgotten what rain really felt like, and beneath it is where he finally gets to let out everything that has happened to him.

When Logan woke to the sounds of leaves rustling above him and a horse grazing nearby, and the feeling of the warmth of the sun on his face, he didn't immediately open his eyes. He felt - though he knew that it wasn't true - that if he opened his eyes, it would all go away. He would be locked inside that mirror once again, facing the eternal darkness that had swallowed him behind that glass. As he came to realize, however, that he couldn't feel Patton's warmth beside him anymore, his eyes snapped open and he sat up immediately, afraid that the hunter had left or been taken in the night.

As he turned his head from one direction to the other, Logan let out a small sigh of relief when he saw that Patton was still there. He was just tending to the one horse that wasn't grazing, combing out its mane, the sunlight reflecting on gold strands of his hair that perfectly framed his cherubic face. It was beautiful, Logan thought idly, the way the hunter seemed to make even the mundane activities seem graceful. He watched in silence, a small smile tugging at his lips, as Patton finished tending to the horse and fed it a handful of grain, softly petting the side of the animal's jaw as it ate.

"Good morning," Patton mused softly, not having to turn his head to see Logan was awake. Years in the forest had trained him to pay attention to movement in his peripheral vision, even if it was blurry from being outside of the frames of his glasses.

Red painted across Logan's cheeks as he realized that he had been caught staring at Patton, and he cleared his throat to avoid stuttering and have a second to compose himself. "Good morning, Patton. When are you planning on heading out again?"

Patton cocked his head to the side, looking over at Logan - and _God_ , he had forgotten just how brilliantly blue those eyes were, seeming miraculously brighter in the light of the day. "As soon as you're fully awake. We can eat on the road; it's going to rain, so we should try to get there before it starts."

The ex-mirror's brows pulled together slightly in confusion as he glanced towards the sky. It was going to rain? But there were no clouds to be seen. How could Patton have possibly come to the conclusion that it was going to rain? Sensing his confusion, Patton chuckled and gave a soft smile that did _something_ to Logan's heart as he brought his gaze back to him.

"I can feel it in the air," Patton explained. "And the leaves on the trees are turned and the horses are jittery. When you spend as long as I have in the woods, you learn to pick up on a few things."

Logan was impressed, his eyebrows going up as he stretched himself as far as he could, and added another thing to his list of the world's marvels. "What time is it? I can't see the sun," he yawned. Reluctantly, he began getting to his feet.

Patton's eyes crinkled at the sight. "Sometime past noon. We slept in pretty late."

Logan had gotten to his feet, looking disdained at the answer as he slid his hands down his face. "Sorry," he muttered. Though he supposed that was what happened when you hadn't really slept for eighteen years, or in Patton's case, stayed up all night to rescue a mirror and run from the king.

His thoughts all came to a screeching halt when a gentle hand cupped at his temple and sweet lips pressed their way against his forehead. _Everything_ seemed to come to a screeching halt— he couldn't think about anything save for the soft presence before him. He closed his eyes. More breeze rustling the leaves, more warmth both from the sun and Patton, and more life than ever before.

"Ready?" Patton hummed.

"I am now."

He was wide awake in fact, eager to feel this daytime air on the horse, curious as to what rain was like lately. Same as always, he supposed, but to him it was brand new. They needed to get a move on anyways. Patton's hand left his head, and he stepped off of the blanket.

After Logan had helped him fold up the blanket and pack, Patton assisted him in getting on the horse again before they were off. They rode for perhaps an hour before the clouds that had been visible in the distance had drifted to overtake most of the sky. The calm afternoon air shifted into something cooler and heavier, though it wasn't unpleasant.

"Storm's moving faster than I thought it would," Patton murmured under his breath. A part of him knew they would get caught in it for sure, but he hoped it wouldn't be too bad, that it at least wouldn't have lightning and thunder. If it did, the horses would get spooked and they would risk being bucked from their saddles. "Hope you don't mind a bit of rain, LoLo," he mused, not wanting to worry the other needlessly.

Was it possible for a human to blush this frequently? Or, rather, was it possible for someone to be that adorable? "N-Not at all," he squeaked out. "I'd actually like it to rain. I haven't felt it in at least eighteen years..." He tilted his head back to look up at the endless expanse of rapidly graying sky. Interesting.

It wasn't until minutes later that the droplets began to fall, the cool wetness pattering against their skin, coating the entire world around them in a hazy sort of calm aliveness. The sound alone... nothing could compare to it. It was such a quiet, yet large sound that forces much bigger than them were creating. But most of all, it made Logan _feel_. It was chilling and it was wet, and there wasn't much more he could do to describe it other than that.

It engulfed him.

Even the beat of the horses' hooves sounded different against the quickly softening ground.

Logan got so caught up in it— so completely entranced— that he hardly noticed when a different sort of water hit his skin, this one containing warmth and salt. God, was he... crying? Again? After being unfeeling for so long, he supposed he was bound to be easily susceptible to tears, the water falling at the slightest hint of strong emotion. He was lucky for the thick wall of rain and gloom if it meant that Patton couldn't see him.

In this noisily silent storm, his mind began to wander. In such a calming circumstance, how would it not? It wandered to obvious places, exploring dark things and fantasies alike, curious and trying to sort the past eighteen years out. Though the one question that stuck out the most was that of what would happen if Dante had listened when Logan begged to be shattered.

Would he have felt rain sooner? Would they be happily together? What if he went dark like yesterday's vision? Yesterday... strangely it seemed like weeks ago to him... Then again, he doubted that would have happened, since Dante hadn't fully lost it yet when he had been pleading for death, nor would it have involved Patton's death. How old was Patton when that happened? How old was he now?

He glanced sideways at the hunter, whose blond curls were stuck to his forehead from the rain, the water dripping from his nose and splattering his glasses - much the way it was with Logan himself. Despite the circumstances he was in, Patton sat tall on the horse, eyes staring ahead as he peered between the raindrops on his glasses, determined to get to Caemas before the weather got any worse, and making sure the horses stayed calm.

Patton saw Logan watching him out of the corner of his eye and he turned his head to meet his eyes, giving a smile that made Logan's heart do flips. "Is it everything you hoped it would be?" he asked sweetly.

It took Logan a moment for his brain to catch up to the question, to realize that Patton was talking about the rain. The rain that was picking up steadily, not quite a downpour, but approaching that level of intensity. "O-oh. Yes, yes it is. We should reach Caemas within a few hours. If you want to pull off and seek shelter to wait out the storm, we—"

"No," Patton interrupted him gently, shaking his head. "It's best to continue on so we can get to Caemas as soon as we can."

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes more before Logan worked up the nerve to ask Patton the question that was on his mind. "How old are you?" he blurted out, the sound seeming loud compared to the silence, and yet somehow it got drowned out by the sounds of the rain around them.

The hunter turned to Logan once more, noticing the horse Logan was on was starting to get a little jittery with the rain. He pulled his own horse closer and gently took the reins from Logan's hand, leading both horses and whispering cooing words of comfort to the animal. Once it was calmed down somewhat, he looked back to Logan, who was watching him with a sweet curiosity. "I'm twenty-one. Why do you ask?"

Logan flexed his newly freed fingers and shrugged, grateful that Patton was so good with the horses. "Just curious. I'm... thinking over it all. How strange it— how strange my life has been. I guess I'm trying to process my..." For someone so fluent in his speech, he couldn't seem to find the right words for this, even though he knew deep down exactly what words the situation merited.

"Trauma?" Patton offered. He was good with these things despite hardly ever interacting with anyone.

Logan was thrown off-guard, but Patton... Patton was right. It had been traumatic, regardless of how much he tried to brush it off or cover it up. "Yes. Tr...auma. Anyways, I simply found it crazy— not in a bad way— that you were likely only three when I was first trapped," he explained, staring intently ahead through the curtain of rain, not all that used to expressing his thoughts and emotions, and the entire process making him squirm.

Patton laughed a little, but it didn't have much humor behind it. It was more of a 'yeah, strange' laugh of agreement. "Did you know the prince?" he inquired. They'd lived in a castle together for nearly Virgil's entire life, so he couldn't imagine the answer being anything but yes, unless he hadn't shown himself.

A bittersweet, nostalgic smile flashed across Logan's drenched face. "I did," he answered, "Ever since he was... two, I think, Dante would bring him to visit. And God, was he cute. So curious, always asking me the oddest things, but I remember being just the same way when I was young. He reminded me so much of myself that I saw him as my son. I'd call him my starlight, and he'd call me dad. Dante was 'father.'" The memory brought a chuckle tumbling out of his lips. Not bitter, just remembering those almost perfect times with fondness despite it all. Then it seemed to fade, became something sad. "He stopped visiting when he was six... Sometimes I wonder if he remembers me."

Logan certainly remembered. He remembered every giggle, every question, and every careful touch those tiny hands performed against the sapphires embedded in the frame of his mirror. All his memories remained, but he couldn't expect the same of a child who'd had much more to experience all those years than Logan did.

The way Logan spoke about the boy made Patton infinitely more glad that he hadn't killed him, that he'd instead chosen the path he was on now, whatever the cost of the danger in which he'd placed himself would be. For them, it was worth it. "If you don't mind my asking... what happened?"

"With Virgil or how I got stuck in a mirror?" he clarified.

Both were questions of Patton's, and he hated silence anyways after living and working alone in it for so long. "All of it," he decided. "Start from the beginning. I'm sure it must not have been easy having no one to talk to about it." Thinking about it, it must have been _really_ hard. It was astounding he hadn't gone mad.

Where did Logan even begin? Deep down, it was a great weight off his shoulders to be able to talk about it to someone with an outside perspective, but he was also scared to, unknowing of where it would lead. What would Patton think? How would he himself react to digging it all up again? "Let's see... I met Dante when I was... god, I must've been barely a child at that point—"

Thus Logan faced his past— all of it— for the first time in all of the years he'd been alive. Patton rode alongside him listening through it all, laughing, frowning, even crying at the tale. Eventually the rain tapered off, leaving the air thick, the ground mushy, and the world quiet other than the voice of one younger than he should be. So when they checked into an inn at Caemas in the dead of night, it felt like no time at all, and Logan's mouth and tear ducts were dry. 


	20. Two Princes in a Bed, Three Inches Apart Because They're Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman finds that Virgil is a sleep-clinger.

Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose with a sharp inhale. All day, they had been going over this... _all day_. Roman would dramatically whine, Virgil would grumble and fuss over him, and they'd just go round and round in circles until they were both tired of speaking. They shared many idle conversations outside of their bickering as well, Virgil insisting on making them lunch and dinner, though Roman had to guide him through it.

The entire time, the sensation of wanting to kiss Roman never left him, nor did the confusion that went with it. So there he remained, lips sealed about it, trying to phrase his questions about why he was feeling these things in his head until they were absolutely fool-proof, but that would take a few days.

"Roman. You are sleeping in your own bed. You're injured," Virgil insisted a few hours after supper. He stood his ground, standing above where the injured prince pouted on the couch.

"No, I'm not," he countered just as stubbornly.

Virgil crossed his arms. "Yes you are."

"You are my guest, I will not have you sleeping on the couch. Prince's honor," Roman challenged smugly.

"I'm a prince too. I'm not having a damsel in distress sleeping on the couch. Prince's honor," he shot back.

A devilish smile slowly spread across the sitting one's face, a tell-tale sign of mischief. "Well, then, my knight in shining armor, what about a compromise?"

"What do you mean?" Virgil huffed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, smirking - though leaning forward as he was put a strain on his scabbed-over wounds and he winced ever so slightly before speaking. "We both sleep in my bed." Roman presented this option as if it were the best idea he'd ever thought up.

Virgil's face burned red at the prospect. He couldn't lay in the same bed as Roman, possibly accidentally touching in their sleep, and then wake up next to him. Nope. No way. It was improper anyways. You were supposed to sleep alone - and alone exclusively - until marriage.

"No."

"Why not? I've got extra blankets. We don't even have to touch," Roman countered, green eyes shining in the firelight. It wasn't fair to Virgil's eyes that he had to be shirtless.

"Absolutely not." At this point, he'd averted his gaze to anywhere but Roman's amused face, determined not to give in to the prince.

"I don't bite, Virgil..." The dark prince just shot him a stubborn glare. Roman sighed, tapping his foot against the floor, and throwing his good arm up. "Oh, come on. What if I get sick and I need you?"

"And why, exactly, would you get sick?" Virgil asked, eyebrow raised at him challengingly.

Roman looked towards the ceiling as he thought, listing on his fingers. "Weakened immune system, infection... Need I go on? Besides, it's much more comfortable anyways." He seemed to be satisfied with this, sitting back again.

Virgil was silent for a long time, chewing the inside of his lip, before he narrowed his eyes and sighed. He could tell that this was just an argument that Roman wasn't going to let him win. Gods know why. He had no clue why Roman was so insistent on having him in bed with him, but the thought burned his cheeks red, despite his every effort to stop the flustered blushing.

"Fine. If that's what it's going to take to get you to sleep in your own bed, then I guess there's no harm in joining you. But we get our own blankets, and if you touch me, I sleep on the couch." He nodded slightly to himself, pleased that he had decided to put his foot down. It was a good boundary to set. A necessary one.

With a soft chuckle that was hardly audible, Roman nodded as well. "You have a deal." He got to his feet, which brought him ever so slightly too close to Virgil, as the shorter prince had been standing over him where he'd been sitting on the couch. Virgil blinked and looked up at him, frozen for a fraction of a second, before stepping aside and clearing his throat to distract himself from the momentarily overwhelming desire to claim the prince's lips with his own.

Roman smirked to himself, feeling a little more confident that he had a chance, and walked towards the stairs to retrieve a second blanket while rotating his slightly aching, itchy shoulder. For the second time that day, he paused before the first step to turn his head over his shoulder. "Coming, Dark and Stormy Knight?"

And for the second time that day— probably more than that, who was he kidding?— Virgil internally swooned.

It wasn't long before Roman had pulled the large blanket of wool from the creaky oak chest at the foot of his bed, and they'd settled as far apart from each other as they could, though that was hardly even three inches, given the size of the bed. Virgil had glared through the whole process, but now that he lay on his side with his back towards Roman, he looked softly at the wall.

What was wrong with him?

He was sure that knights or soldiers had to sleep far closer than this during times of battle or long journeys that forced them to sleep outside, so why was this so hard— so easily causing a rise out of him?

Maybe it was just because it was foreign.

Thinking about it only frustrated and confused him, so he tried to imagine simpler things before his mind abandoned all thought and began to drift off.

Roman on the other hand was having a hard time sleeping, uncomfortable with how he tried to keep up his end of the bargain by not touching Virgil while still going easy on his wounds. So he just lay there, listening as Virgil's breaths became deep and steady, and thought to himself while staring at the ceiling. Usually he was too exhausted for this sort of thing, so it was nice to lay awake and think. Especially now that there was another warm body to keep him company.

Tracing his eyes along the soft curve of the soundly asleep human beside him, watching the steady rise and fall of each deep breath, he wished more than anything that he could hold him and have him be his. But that could never be. However, that didn't stop the aching in his chest as he longed for something he knew he could never have. Pushing away that feeling, he let himself settle for imagining what could be rather than what his harsh reality was. Roman wished he could see his face: peaceful and pale with those stupidly adorable dark and fluffy bangs...

"Oh Virgil, what have you done to me?" he murmured.

His thoughts were interrupted as Virgil seemed to stir, and he froze. It only lasted a moment, but as soon as the moment was over, Virgil turned over in his sleep, his arm landing across Roman's chest to pull himself closer until his face was nuzzled into the space on his chest just beneath his shoulder. Roman swallowed, blushing furiously. Virgil... clinging to him... in his bed...

Roman was screwed.

Virgil's efforts to wedge himself against Roman didn't cease. Oh no, his legs were nudging themselves between Roman's own, and his arms were wrapping a boa constrictor-worthy grip around him. Curious, he tilted his head down to view Virgil's face, which was quite possibly the most peaceful face he'd ever seen. It was somehow far softer than when Roman had seen him asleep during their first encounter.

Lucky he'd firmly wrapped the burn on his chest and slipped his softest shirt over it, Roman wrapped his arm around the other prince, unbothered by the weight resting atop him. Well... not so much unbothered as internally panicking. There was no way he _couldn't_ panic with how incredibly close they were. Not just a squeeze of the hand or the brushing of fingers; full-body cuddling. It didn't matter if Virgil wasn't awake for it. Roman surely was.

It was a long time before Roman was able to relax with the prince in his arms, curled up to his side impossibly closely. His heart practically soared when Virgil nuzzled his head up underneath Roman's jaw, and he was met with the overwhelming urge to press a kiss to those soft curls of black hair that tickled his skin.

Eventually, he was able to focus on the steady sound of Virgil's breathing and the warmth that emanated from his body, rather than the fact that the warmth was caused by how closely they were pressed together. It felt like an eternity of lying there, but eventually, he let his eyes slip shut. And for the first time in ages, he slept with a warm body in his arms, an even warmer feeling settling over his heart. 


	21. Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton and Logan pay a visit to the queen, but Logan leaves alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Strangulation via magic.

Logan supposed he would never get used to the feeling of waking up. Not that he was particularly eager to do so. Not when it meant curling into the warmth of the strong arms that surrounded him— when _had_ they surrounded him? He was certain they hadn't been doing so when he'd fallen asleep— seeing the morning sunlight shining through his eyelids, turning them red, and basking in the glow of a good night's rest.

No, Logan was in no hurry to get used to the feeling of waking up. The feeling of anything, if he was being entirely honest.

As soon as he started moving, nuzzling up underneath Patton's chin and pressing closer to his warm body, sleepy noises falling from his lips, the bright-eyed hunter smiled fondly. He had been awake for a little over an hour, simply holding onto the exhausted boy in the bed with him— having taken hold of him when he'd woken up— to feel Logan curling up to his side.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Patton mused softly with a teasing chuckle.

Logan pulled away from Patton, jolted from his sleepy haze and blinking up at him. Red dusted his cheeks from being so close to the other, and he cleared his throat to hopefully be rid of the scratchiness that he knew sleep brought to his voice. "Good morning, Patton. How... how long have you been awake?"

"Not too long. I wanted to let you sleep before we go try to talk to the queen about starting a revolution against her son."

Logan snorted at Patton's remark, deciding to be trusting and slide back into his arms. "I believe the revolution can wait." Then he smirked, satisfied with himself and how he'd basically gotten a boyfriend the second he came back into the real world, but easily ruined his smugness by thinking about last night.

They'd stumbled into the room, soaking wet, and beaming bright enough to put the sun back in the sky. Logan had never felt better, and it wasn't just because crying was mentally and physically beneficial. No, it was because of Patton. Together they gathered up the provided wood and got a fire going to warm them and dry their clothes.

Without a word, Patton had begun undressing to get out of his wet apparel, stripping down until all that was left were his undergarments, displaying his beautiful constellation of freckles from his life in the sun. Logan didn't have so much as a star on his skin— it being entirely fair, having not seen the sun in so long— which made Patton all the more special. Logan couldn't help but stare. Not to mention how his arms told of countless days of labor and drawing back a bowstring, his thighs tight from crouching, and his hips curved out away from his waist. Logan had never seen such curved hips.

All of this brought him here, waking in the morning with secure arms around him to remind him that it wasn't just a dream. A blush made itself known all the way to his bare chest.

Patton beamed at him, curious as to what was going on in his head. "We have to get up some time, LoLo," he mused.

There was that nickname again. Logan cursed how easily it made him blush, how easily it made him smile. Though, if he were to really think about it, there wasn't much about Patton that _didn't_ make him easily smile and blush.

Still, after an entire day of riding, Logan was thoroughly exhausted, and every muscle in his body ached after eighteen years of disuse. He wasn't ready to get up just yet, but he knew that he probably should, considering they had a big day ahead of them. Maybe he could take a hot bath later to relax his sore muscles. With a small sigh, Logan loosened his grip on Patton once more, pulling away from him, immediately missing the warmth his hold had provided. "Does it always ache this much after riding a horse?"

The hunter gave a sympathetic smile, sitting up and grabbing both pairs of glasses from the nightstand, handing Logan's to him before putting on his own. "It can. If it's been a while since you've ridden, or if it's a long day of riding like yesterday. I'm used to the long days, so it doesn't hurt me much anymore. I forgot to take that into account. Are you okay?"

It was true that everything was sore, and that he'd probably be waddling all day at the stiff pain, but he'd be fine. It was better than the mirror he'd been trapped in. "I'm fine," he told him with a smile. His eyes slipped down and traced the scar on Patton's shoulder and the larger one above his hip that looked like it used to be a pretty serious gash. He had many more on his hands and arms, the price of being a hunter in the woods that worked with so many weapons.

Logan let his fingers lightly brush against it to feel the way it raised slightly on his skin. This drew a soft gasp out of Patton, and Logan asked, "If you don't mind my asking, where did this scar come from?"

Patton just smiled softly, seemingly eager to tell him rather than hesitant. "I missed my shot on a boar, and it attacked me. His tusk ripped right across my side. Had to stumble all the way back to the village," he laughed, the memory so distant to him that it seemed amusing now rather than painful.

Logan looked up at him with his eyes flashing with intrigue. "And this one?" he questioned, referring to his shoulder. Patton had led such a wild life for how docile and sweet he was.

"I was pheasant hunting in a group, and someone's arrow grazed me," he told him, almost proudly.

"Well, at least you have me to watch out for you now," Logan mused.

Patton scrunched his nose. "I don't know about that. You move like a newborn fawn," he giggled.

Logan feigned offense at being called clumsy. "It's a good thing we're dealing with magic and not animals, then. Now neither of us look competent," he teased back.

"My magic mirror man knows nothing about magic?" Patton inquired, amused.

He knew Patton was teasing, but his ego got the best of him. "Well, I took quite a few notes on Dante from when he first began learning magic, and he was the only interesting thing to watch the past eighteen years, so I know a lot, I just can't use it," he relayed.

After a few more moments of back and forth storytelling, the two of them resolved to get out of bed, gathering their clothes— mostly dried now— and slipping into them. Logan felt wrong going to seek an audience with the queen in damp, dirty clothing that he had technically been wearing for the last eighteen years, even though he didn't have a body most of that time, but he knew that there wasn't much of a choice.

They made their way out of the inn and after feeding the horses tethered outside and ensuring that they were secured, they headed towards the palace. Despite his soreness and the longing to hold Patton's hand— he refrained for fear of someone seeing— he found his feet moving of their own accord, excitedly guiding Patton through the streets he used to roam. The sights of the buildings and the palace in the distance could only be described as breathtaking now that they could see it in the daylight. It was all so familiar to him in so many ways that had him wanting to cry.

He wanted to go to his old home, see if his parents were still alive and well, wander to all the old places he used to go with Dante. He wanted to race through the woods and to the creek, passing the pens filled with pigs and the stray chicken or cat, and stand on the huge, likely empty stage in the theater. Oh god, he'd missed this. He'd missed all the cottages and cabins and huts and houses, the merchants in the street, most of the smells, the bustling noise and laughter of children, all of it.

He'd missed _life_.

Forgetting for just a moment, he grabbed Patton's hand and squeezed it in excitement, then remembered and casually withdrew it.

"What does Virgil look like?" Logan suddenly asked amidst the silence. The question had been nagging him ever since he became acquainted with Patton, knowing that he'd at least _seen_ the prince when he was sent to kill him, and he missed his little star more than anything. However, the courage to speak it only came now.

Snapping out of his own world, Patton's head jolted up to look at Logan, blinking for a moment. "O-oh, he uh... He's got black hair like you, though it's more fluffy-looking, and his bangs are a lot messier. His eyes are a deep brown, and before he knew I was sent to kill him, he was really soft-spoken and kind, but boy was he fiery once he knew what was going on..." Patton paused, chuckling a little, and Logan couldn't tell if it was genuine or nervous. "His skin is pale as porcelain. That's about all I remember..." His face scrunched together in both finality and searching at the same time before lighting up all over again. "Oh! And he's tall. Really tall, but scrawny," he described, "He looks like you."

Logan had found himself dissolving in the words, bringing them to life until it was as if his little star was standing before him on the path, even though he knew it was likely he'd never see him again, but when the last phrase came to life, it was as if his very breath left him. He knew Virgil wasn't his, yet it brought him unadulterated joy. In another world, Virgil _was_ his. He could be happy with that thought.

"Thank you," he murmured with a small smile to himself.

When he blinked next, the palace was before them in all its intricate, massive beauty. Its walls were built of white stone, the entire structure mainly taking a rectangular shape with the exception of the towers jutting out from it at almost random intervals all around the outer wall. In the center of it all, Logan knew lay a courtyard and the steps leading to the front entrance. That was where they needed to be.

After swiftly crossing a short bridge, they arrived at the guarded gate.

One of the many guards posted outside the palace walls approached them when they came near, and Logan decided to take the lead here, considering he had more experience with the queen— though a part of him knew that Patton had more recent experience with palace guards in general. "State your business," the guard said gruffly.

"We need to request an audience with Queen Ophelia," Logan replied steadily, his shoulders squared and his head high.

"To what regards?"

"Regarding her son, King Dante of Reishel, and a potential alliance." After the words had already left his mouth, he cursed himself, knowing he should have mentioned the Society. That would've gotten her attention more than anything.

The guard looked to one of the others and gave them an order to stay with Logan and Patton before disappearing into the castle to deliver the message to the queen. Not even five minutes later, he rejoined them with a short nod of his head. "Come with me."

Logan glanced at his freckled companion, confusion flashing across his face as to why they'd been admitted into the castle so easily. Surely it took more bribing than this. Unless the Queen knew more than he thought. Or perhaps any word from her son was a word worth hearing, so he dropped the subject, and continued on walking until they'd crossed the courtyard and climbed up the steps— something far more painful than it should have been because of the soreness— to reach the main doors.

The door led to a plain hallway lined with torches, and the guard brought them to yet another set of doors, pushing it open more ceremoniously. The sight of the Queen on her throne before him sent chills through his bones, being in the presence of her making him suddenly nauseous. She radiated the thing that consumed his lover and destroyed his life— had been the one to teach Dante, even— it surrounded her, but he knew he had to go through with this. After all of this was over, however, he'd never have another thing to do with magic ever again.

If he didn't die first, that is.

With careful, precise strides that matched Patton's, he walked down the carpet aisle and ended his journey with a kneel before the throne. "Your majesty," they both greeted in unison.

"Tutor's son," she returned with an old, wise voice of honey meant to trap flies, "And... a hunter."

Logan flinched. How did she remember him? Why didn't she question his unaging? How did she know about Patton? He bit his tongue. There was no easy, scientific answer that made sense. The answer was simply magic.

The pair lifted their heads and stood, their gaze meeting the queen's. Something about her just _looked_ unnatural. Perhaps it was the fact that she hardly bore a single wrinkle, or that her hair was still that same golden blonde as Dante's, or maybe it was both of these combined with the fact that her dark eyes seemed much older than the rest of her. How had none of the guards or staff— or anyone— noticed this and burned her at the stake as they did every other thing they didn't understand? She must have had them all brainwashed.

Logan refused to speak first, staring at her Highness. She seemed to challenge him, while at the same time viewing him as if he were nothing but an angry kitten attempting to roar.

"If you've come to collect your undergarments from my son's chambers, I'm afraid they're long gone by now," she teased, chuckling deep in her throat. Logan's ears burned red, hating that she was able to know so much while trying his best not to be embarrassed. Patton donned his own blush as well.

Logan avoided looking at Patton as he cleared his throat in order to respond to the Queen. It took a second to get over his flustered state, but once he did, he spoke up. "No, your Highness. I have come in regards to what I believe is a threat to your kingdom as well as your son's and the Society."

The guard beside the throne stepped forward, hand going to the hilt of the sword in its sheath— though there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the Queen could defend herself with a simple flick of her fingers— and Logan put his hands up defensively to show he meant no harm.

"Not by my doing," he assured them, his voice surprisingly calm despite the racing of his heart. Dante's mother had always unnerved him in general, but now even more so since he had had first-hand experience with magic the way he had.

The Queen hummed in response, lifting a hand to silently wave away the guard, and once he had retreated to his previous position, she cleared her throat softly. "And what, pray tell, is this big threat you speak of?"

Logan was unsure if he was allowed to speak freely here, wary of the guard and saying the wrong thing in his presence. "Dark magic," he replied, his voice containing a slightly bitter tinge.

The Queen raised an eyebrow, appearing to be more interested in what he had to say now, though Logan suspected she could read every thought that crossed his mind, and was only sparing him the discomfort of that idea. "Well then, I suppose we should talk somewhere more comfortable. I can tell this is going to be a long story, _Logan_."

Yet again was he chilled to his core, and if there was one thing he knew for certain about magic, it was that names were powerful, and he was trapped under her finger. She stood from her throne with a posture to rival Logan's, though hers spoke of authority and intimidation. Then she gathered up her emerald green dress, nodded to the guard, and walked behind her throne, pulling back a black tapestry depicting their family's crest in yellow— a two-headed snake— to reveal a door. Logan would still respect her as he once did if not for her magic.

After they'd followed her to the hidden room, she'd lit a few lanterns, humming to herself some unknown tune that Logan had probably missed in the eighteen years he'd been away. Once she was done and settled on a velvet couch— beckoning for Patton and him to do the same on the opposite one— she spoke. Though Logan could hardly concentrate because he kept glancing at all the jars and books contained within. If this was where she kept her supplies, what had the room he'd always been to with Dante been for?

"You hold me in contempt," she stated with a tilt of her head. Not a question, but a keen observation.

Logan squirmed under her gaze. "I have no qualms with you, your majesty. I simply look upon magic with distaste from personal experience," he said levelly.

"That is not all you have against it. You fear it. Why?"

He didn't come here to be picked apart psychologically, especially not by her, and not about this. Nor in front of Patton. Yet for some reason, he found himself compelled to give her his answer, whether it be pride or the need to say it out loud.

"It is something untouchable. I can't see it, I can't dissect it, and I have no control over it. Nor does most everyone else, and those who wield it tend to abuse their power. It is not science that can be explained and proven, no, it itself is the explanation. That isn't right. No one should have that much control over the workings of the world."

She paused, watching him with amusement and absorbing his words so as to come up with her response, all the while chewing on her lip and squinting her eyes. "Tell me, Logan Tutor-son, do you know what's at the bottom of the ocean?" He didn't answer. These were rhetorical questions with only one answer, meant to trap him. "Or perhaps, what lies beneath the skin of the planet you walk upon? Or maybe you know what is among the stars?" She hardly paused before continuing. "No? Just because you are unable to understand something doesn't mean you should fear it. You should learn as much as you can about it, master it, or ignorance and refusal to accept the inevitable facts of life will be your downfall," she advised.

Logan was rendered speechless, having found his successor in tongue, and actually stopped to consider her advice before becoming stubborn once more. "That does not excuse the things done to me," he informed shortly.

She frowned. "No, it does not. What _did_ happen to you, boy? You disappeared, my son became scarce, and now you return, almost eighteen years later, the same as you were when I last laid eyes upon you."

Logan wanted to say, 'I could say the same for you,' but he bit his tongue, and instead told his story. It was brief, only the necessary details going into it, and most of it was about Dante's spiral into darkness and the events of the past few days. All throughout, he only stopped to answer the queen's questions or when Patton jumped in. Queen Ophelia remained unphased.

"So you want my help," she said when he was finished. She couldn't have been more nonchalant.

Logan nodded. "Yes. I did not know of anyone else to go to."

Her gaze flickered to Patton and her eyes scanned over him in silence for a second before she looked to Logan once more, a small smile quirking at the corners of her lips. "Why do you need my help, Logan? You have a weapon right by your side; a star just waiting to become a supernova."

Wait...

"What?" Logan's brows pulled together and he looked from the queen to Patton and back, having never felt at more of a loss for words.

The queen waved one hand towards Patton, and raised a single eyebrow as if she didn't know that Logan was unaware of whatever she saw. When Logan simply greeted her with more silence, she let out a small sigh. "Do you mean to tell me that you don't know the power your hunter holds?"

Patton piped up, fear in his voice, after having been nearly silent the entire correspondence. "W-What do you mean? I'm just a hunter; a nobody. You must be confused."

Queen Ophelia tilted her head with a sinister look, possibly deciding what to do with them as if they were nothing more than prey. The silence got under his skin, and by looking at Patton, he could instantly tell that he was just as terrified by her meaning. There was no way he could be faking that.

"I send my most sincere apologies in advance, then," she announced, and before Logan could put in another word, his throat constricted, crushed under the weight of an unseen force.

The sound that left him was sickening: the air he attempted to suck in scraping against the little space left in his throat, the spike of fear, and the pain of being unable to breathe as well as the pressure squeezing him, all in the one choked rasp. He pressed his feet into the floor, pressing back, trying to fight it— just struggling until he knew there was nothing he could do. At that point, he just clawed at his throat as if to scrape it off, and prayed that something happened before she managed to kill him. That said a lot, seeing as he was never one for religion.

_He couldn't breathe._

What was she trying to prove? Patton wasn't abnormal, he wasn't a weapon, he couldn't _save_ him. If she didn't stop, he was going to _die_. Patton knew this as well because he wouldn't stop screaming for her to stop, trying to get to him, but she was holding him back as well, keeping him desperately struggling.

" _Let me go, let me go, **let me go**_!" Patton screamed, straining uselessly forward where he'd been kept stuck on his hands and knees facing Logan with an outstretched hand.

Logan's head was beginning to feel like it would explode from the pressure, and he knew that could only mean that he was turning red outwardly. However, that wasn't very helpful in telling him how much time he had left or why this was happening or if it would stop... That _killed_ him because it always seemed like he'd have forever and there was still so much he wanted to know— god his mind was racing, everything a screaming chorus of panic and anger and pain and fear— _somebody make it stop._

" ** _Please_**. I need to help him— I need to get to him— I'm not special, just **stop**!" Patton continued to plead, beginning to sob. The witch didn't so much as flinch or break a sweat, and for that alone, Logan hated her with all his being. They were but insects to her.

_He couldn't breathe._

His entire chest was on fire, burning endlessly with a heat unknown to him before this moment of agony. His chest spasmed and tried to take in air that wasn't there, so the only thing he succeeded in doing was making his lungs hurt somehow worse from the suction.

It was a nightmare tearing forth from a dream he had known would never last. The dream that was being free, the dream that was a life uncomplicated by magic, the dream of living quietly when this was all over, the dream of being himself...

The dream that was Patton.

With the last bit of energy he had— rather than be angry— he turned his head as best he could towards his bright-eyed, curly-haired, freckle-kissed companion, knowing that if they'd had more time together, Logan would have gotten to know and love every single bit of him, and mouthed a strained, 'I'm sorry.'

_He couldn't breathe._

Patton just looked betrayed— scared— worse than he had when they both thought he would die the first time, and tears spilled from those beautiful eyes of his. Logan hated to see him so sad at his expense.

"No," Patton protested in barely a whisper. "No, no, no, no, **_NO!_** " His volume mounted, and the rapid switch from devastation to rage towards the Queen was jarring. To see the hunter angry would have brought fear to him on any other day, but with the excruciating sensation of strangulation wracking his body, nothing but pain seemed to register to him.

_He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't **breathe.**_

His vision spotted black.

His hands slipped from his throat.

And Logan's head went limp with the rest of him.

Just as he thought that was the end; that he was dead, that it was _over_ , a shrill scream, louder than humanly possible— as if it came from a small dragon— ripped through the room for seconds on end. Logan was indifferent to it in his state, but deep down in the depths of his wavering subconscious, it made him primally fearful. Filled with dread. That couldn't be... that wasn't Patton... right? Blinding blue light piercing his eyelids proved him wrong, filling the room with the sounds of shattering glass and rippling heat just out of his reach. Logan could feel the waves, though it affected him not, and it was more a warmth than a painful stinging.

The room was silent.

Logan let the darkness take away his memory of the scream and the light, let it take everything, let himself slip into a state of unconsciousness that was somehow a more comforting embrace than the kind of nothing the mirror could be.

At least here he didn't have to think.

At least here he was kept warm by the outside world.

Where even _was_ here? What kind of mind— what kind of subconscious— did one touched by magic hold? Here was nowhere and everywhere all at once, it was creation itself, the stars, Patton's agonized eyes, and emptiness. It was a gaping black hole and a star in the midst of being created. It was being able to hear distorted bits and pieces of what was happening around his body, while also being a trillion light years away all at once.

_"What the hell **was** that?!"_

_"You already know."_

_"No... No—"_

_"Heal him."_

_"I c-c... I can't."_ Trembling gasps, relief and anger at the same time... exhaustion.

_"You must. You just needed the first push."_

_"You call that a **push?!** You nearly **killed** him!"_ More rage, though it didn't matter. They were just more words— one person, one language— out of almost an infinite amount. Logan could count the exact number, though it'd be too long to think; too long to name. He could also name the first word ever spoken.

Why couldn't he make himself care about any of this? Was this what magic did?

Magic created the world. It did everything.

With a loud, drawn-out gasp— god, breathing felt incredible, the smooth air gliding back into his lungs and filling his entire body with a euphoric feeling— he was back inside himself. He was here, grounded, on the couch with Patton beside him...

Where had he been before now?

He couldn't remember.

It didn't matter.

At least he hadn't died, but surviving with the knowledge of what that sort of pain felt like wasn't the best either.

"Logan!" Patton cried with a teary-eyed grin of relief, like his world had just been returned to him. Then before Logan could register anything, he was being crushed in a hug, something still so foreign to him. So foreign— he was also disoriented and his stomach still nagged at him with dread over whatever that scream and the light was— that he flinched.

When Patton pulled away to read his face, Logan looked for some sort of answer in his eyes. What happened? How long had he been unconscious? Why didn't he remember sitting up? Though answers he found not, only guilt and nervousness, clouding the bright eyes he'd come to be fond of.

His fingers brushed his throat, knowing it should be bruised and throbbing with pain, but there was nothing there. Though he knew he hadn't dreamt his strangling, for when he opened his mouth and tried to speak, all that came out was an incoherent rasp. He tried again. "What happened?" His voice was scratchy, though at least it was an improvement.

Patton glanced to the Queen— the **_Queen_** — for some sort of guidance that he couldn't understand, and Logan only met that small gesture with bitterness, shooting a glare in her direction. He'd deal with her later, _after_ his questions were answered. Why hadn't she killed him, or if she by some small chance _had_ , why was he alive? He shook himself of the distraction, and turned his attention back to the response he was owed.

Patton gave a soft, anxious smile, resting his hands on his lap where he sat on his knees. The Queen sighed. Why were they treating him like glass?

"Let me fix that for you," Patton said rather than answering his question, his hand coming up softly in offering.

In his mind, Logan knew what he meant, but his heart didn't want to believe it. "Fix what?" he croaked in denial. His heart tried to beat out of his chest.

" _Please just trust me and don't freak out_ ," Dant— Patton pleaded.

Logan shook his head vehemently, his face pulling together. He was terrified, angry. _Just_ when he thought that things were looking up, that he was safe, that there may be a chance at living normally...

What if it happened again?

Or something similar?

He scrambled away from Patton, pushing himself up off the couch and taking a few steps back. "I can't. That's what _he_ said," Logan responded shakily.

His world was beginning to blur together, the past and present mixing, throwing him back to when he was _really_ nineteen, and not just some clone of it. Dante replaced Patton, and his mother was all the same, but now instead of his original respect, Logan only found hatred— hatred for what she'd done to Dante, to him, and for what she was. This couldn't be happening. Patton couldn't be _just_ like him.

He gripped his head, and Patton called out to him, but all he could hear was Dante's voice, and the full weight of grief at losing his lover hit him for the first time. He had to get out of here.

His head snapped up, and in a brief moment of mental clarity, he stared directly at the queen with a freezing cold rage. "I hope your kingdom is the first to fall. The blood would be on your hands... _you_ created him."

And then he promptly turned and made for the door as if nothing could stand in his path. Not even the monstrosity that was magic.

"I didn't teach Dante magic," the Queen called after him, making Logan freeze, "I made him think he had a choice because if he knew he was born with it like Patton, he would've resented me. Now what he did with it when I wasn't watching is no fault of mine."

It was a shame, really. She had almost convinced him to learn to accept magic once more, but she had stamped that out the moment his throat constricted. She was just like Dante... or maybe he was like her.

Or maybe people with magic were all the same.

His feet began moving once more.

" _Lo? Where are you going?_ "

No.

No.

No, no, **_no._**

Don't say that.

Don't use his words.

" **Home.** "


	22. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Virgil dance around the events of the previous night. Dante furthers his planning.

When Virgil woke up curled into the warmth that poured from Roman's sleeping body, it took him a second to realize where he was. He hummed softly and contentedly— nearly a purr— as he nuzzled against him, but when Roman shifted slightly in his sleep, Virgil froze, eyes opening widely.

There was an arm around him.

And his leg was wrapped around... _something._ Probably another leg.

And he was clinging onto whatever warm thing he was curled into like it was his lifesaver.

No.

Nope.

Virgil slowly tilted his chin up so he could look at whatever he was clinging to, and when he saw Roman's face, peacefully asleep, he made a noise of embarrassed surprise, squeaking in the back of his throat. He quickly and gently detached his leg and arms from around the other prince, ignoring the way his heart was racing in his chest, and slid out from the hold around him.

He made his way to the kitchen, trying to clear his head and calm the deep blush that had painted across his cheeks among other things. After several minutes of pacing, he had managed to do just that, and he took a deep breath and began making breakfast. He wasn't as skilled as Roman in the kitchen, but he had picked up a thing or two.

Roman came down the stairs eventually, beautifully sleep-rumpled, his hair every which way and a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. He yawned widely and ran his fingers through his hair, only serving to further ruffle it, before looking to Virgil, who had finished making breakfast and was seated on the couch. 

"I made you breakfast," Virgil said softly, nodding towards the plate on the counter. Was it too much to ask that Roman not look so infuriatingly good in the morning? Or that Virgil didn't have this reaction to it? Or that he hadn't woken up the way he did, with their legs— _'Don't think about it, Virgil,'_ he told himself.

Roman gave him a funny look. "Thank you..." He shuffled forward, eyeing him with a suspicion that Virgil chose to ignore. "You're up early," he noted. "Is it about..." Roman trailed off, the 'it' obvious to them both, and it needn't be said, really. "...because it's fine, you know."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Virgil blatantly lied, scratching the back of his neck and watching as Roman decided to let it go and grab the plate Virgil had made him.

Roman joined him on the couch in quiet with a pained hiss and ample squirming to position himself in the least painful way to his burns. Virgil gave a wince of sympathy, knowing it must hurt something awful.

For the next few minutes, Virgil awkwardly sat there in silence while the other ate, fidgeting with his fingers in search of something to say or do. No ideas came. Well, except for one, but surely that was humiliating? Although, he needed to know after all that he'd felt in the few days he'd been here with Roman.

"What does it feel like to love someone?" Virgil blurted out. Roman looked taken aback, but Virgil continued, beginning to babble. "I mean, you— you've had more experience than I have, I'm sure. How do you know if you like a girl? You at least knew you didn't like that princess, so how do you do the opposite of that?"

"I..." Roman blinked in shock. Where was this coming from? What had caused Virgil to have those thoughts? Surely his sleep-cuddling hadn't been anything more than that. If it had been, he wouldn't be denying that it ever happened. "What?"

The smaller prince's face warmed. "I just thought you might know a bit more than me on the subject."

How was Roman supposed to explain how you knew you were in love with a girl, when he himself had never been in love with a girl? Maybe the feelings were the same as when you were in love with a boy... "Have you... never been in love before?" he asked curiously, brows pulling together.

The question alone made the red dusting Virgil's cheeks darker as he shook his head. "You and the hunter who tried to kill me are the only people I have ever spoken to outside of palace walls."

Oh, Roman knew that feeling. Knew the incredible loneliness that was being hidden away behind the guarded gates around the palace. At least he had grown up with a brother to talk to. Virgil had had no one.

Virgil quietly added, curious, "Have you?" Roman gave him a weak smile in response.

How did he begin to explain how it felt to love someone? Roman himself had only ever experienced that once, with the boy back home. Though... as he spent more time with Virgil, he thought maybe...

No.

Virgil wanted to know about loving a girl.

Shifting on the couch again without purpose, he cleared his throat. "Well..." He looked into Virgil's soft eyes, and somehow the answer simply came to him, leaving all the hesitance to fall away.

"They begin to feel like a missing piece of you," he began surely, "Something that just... fits." By some miracle, when Roman slid his fingers between Virgil's— to emphasize his point, of course— so that their hands were interlocked, the prince didn't pull away. He simply gave a lingering look at the contact.

Virgil didn't know what to think. This very much seemed to fit, and with the way Roman had gone about sliding their fingers perfectly into place, he couldn't help but wonder if it meant something. That couldn't be the case, though could it? This wasn't a scenario that ended in romance. Now, if Virgil had been a princess— a maiden in dire need of protection— then maybe, and that might be what was confusing him. This reminded him too much of a romance novel or play, when it was nothing more than kindness.

Roman was telling him how it felt to love a girl, nothing more.

"When they walk in the room, your stomach flips, and when they leave it, it sinks. Every touch begins to feel like buzzing warmth." They were both sure they felt that very same warmth in their fingertips.

Roman tried to discern something from Virgil's eyes— anything— but all he got was an entranced look as he absorbed his words and the way Roman spoke them. So he pushed on, and finished his monologue on love. "Being with them will feel as easy as breathing, and you won't know what has hit you until it is too late." Oh, how it was too late. Love had struck the prince's romantic heart the second he'd seen the eyes of this feisty yet gentle, confusing and easy to read all at once, boy.

Then Roman cast his gaze away and let their hands slip apart. "I— If I had to tell you how it felt to love someone, then it'd be that," he ended softly.

As Virgil processed everything Roman had said, he found himself even more confused than before, saddened by the loss of warmth against his hand. He couldn't be in love with Roman, could he? And if he were to be, what were the chances that Roman felt the same? Hardly plausible.

No, they weren't in love at all...

***

Dante growled, circling the well in his state of infuriation as the black dove stared at him curiously, perched on its rim in all its sleek beauty. The image he'd been viewing had all but sizzled out, leaving only the dark, rippling water he'd brought to the top of the circle of stones. There it boiled with the mere waves of the king's rage. This made the bird uneasy, and it made its nervous chittering noises while staying loyal to its new owner by remaining.

The boy being injured would be a setback.

How could this happen? _Why_ had this happened? And the fact that he couldn't simply have his questions answered— couldn't talk to his Logan— only served to worsen his aggravated state.

Was it his magic lashing out that had caused it? After all, he had enchanted that mine ages ago so that no kingdom could rival theirs in riches, so perhaps something had gone wrong. Was he really losing control that badly?

"Enough about why!" he hissed aloud, grinding his feet into the ground. The dove's feathers ruffled.

Dante rested his elbows on the well, hiding his face in his gloved hands so that he could think. The black leather was hot from the sun, causing his hands to sweat, but it felt nice for his face to be pressed against such a material. He took several deep breaths, and... Oh.

_Oh._

This could be used to his advantage. Prince Virgil— challenger to his throne since he'd come of age, even more so now that he was fairer than Dante _'because of compassion,'_ he mocked in his head, and therefore more likely to be favored by the people— had hardly known this coward of a prince four days. That meant he didn't fully trust him yet, for how could you trust anyone if the only people you'd ever met were servants or trying to kill you? Not only that, but if Dante were to impersonate the boy, he'd need time to study him— to rehearse every mannerism until he had the royal down to a tee. Oh this was perfect, actually. With how suspicious and jumpy his _stepson_ was? He _needed_ this time to prepare.

Slowly, he lifted his head and turned it to his new companion, cocking an eyebrow. "Shall we stay a bit longer, my dear..." He paused in the realization he hadn't given the bird a name yet. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to the well once more, carelessly flicking his finger around in the water with his cheek resting on his idle hand.

It was obvious, really, what he'd name the creature. It was what he needed to get to work; to bring the images back to life on the surface of the water, to study, to plan, to execute... The work that was getting the threat to his throne out of the way and making those responsible for the death of his love pay penance for what they'd done. He'd name his new pet...

**"Logan."  
**


	23. Yellow Chrysanthemums to a Cruel World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan doesn't end up going home. Instead, he finds himself crying and yelling in the woods where it all began.

Logan didn't end up going home.

The second he'd left the dark, small room behind the tapestry, Patton along with it, he'd let his emotions get the better of him, a stronger wave than he'd had in years threatening to bring him to his knees. If he'd been crying when he was in the castle, he had hardly noticed a thing. The entire world was a tilting blur. His lungs burned nearly as bad as they had during his asphyxiation-session with the Queen, and before he knew it, he was collapsed in the woods.

How did he even get there?

How long had it been?

He pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them as he gathered his thoughts and counted with every unsteady rise and fall of his chest until everything had evened out. Then he finally allowed himself to pause and take in his surroundings.

It was funny to him how like kingdoms, the woods could change drastically, feeling like an entirely different place altogether, while still being all the same. It was the trees, the leveling of the ground and the way the dirt had shifted around. It was the bend, path, and size of the creek; how it was still water, but it wasn't the _same_ water. Entirely different plants took over the forest floor, too, Logan only recognizing a few wildflowers from his original youth.

Everything was so green and filled with life that it made Logan feel at peace for a moment, watching the grasses sway near the bank. He sighed and picked up a slippery leaf that had prematurely fallen from its tree, inspecting the veins in it before absentmindedly ripping it as he thought because the feeling was satisfying.

He was smart to come here.

His parents would have lost their minds if they'd been home, seeing him the exact same age as when he'd disappeared. He wasn't in the right space to be a good son to them right now anyways, for how would he explain this? When he was choking on his own sobs, so disoriented that he couldn't even register the world around him? Wasn't a logical idea.

He glanced over to his right to one of the things he'd been avoiding since his mind had subconsciously thrown him here: the decaying remnants of a log. That was where he'd sat. That was where magic first made an appearance in his life, leading him to where he was now.

He never did get to properly mourn Dante— or his little star, even. One day, he just stopped being himself, and there was nothing Logan could do about it except for adapt to stay sane. No amount of magic would bring his childhood friend and first love back to him, and there was something so entirely soul-crushing about that that made Logan feel like giving up then and there. He'd made it out of the mirror, and he was back home, but it wasn't in Dante's arms as had been the goal for so long that he couldn't remember the day it stopped being.

It was all real, he realized. The full force of everything was hitting him because he was no longer fresh with shock, but back home in the reality of it all.

What if he never saw Virgil again? Nothing promised that he would come back to take his place on the throne, nor could the universe ensure that their paths would cross when Virgil was _trying_ not to be found. He thought he should grieve his loss as well while he was alone, crying in his own reflection of his too-long youth. He missed that little boy of his more than he could possibly name. What did that little chubby face and those messy bangs look like now? Was he handsome? Was he happy wherever he was? Did he have _someone_ to love him?

Logan found himself shaking again, and took off his glasses to press his forehead to his knees in the hopes of relieving the pain, but this was the type of pain that stayed faint in your chest forever no matter what you did.

Dante was gone, he never got to see Virgil grow up, and his entire world felt like it was falling apart with another lover-gone-wrong. Patton would just do the same thing Dante did, wouldn't he? Spiral into insanity, leaving Logan alone and scared and _heartbroken_. And for not the first time, he found himself pleading for simpler times, when Dante's arms were around him and he was _safe_.

All he wanted was the lost time back. He wanted to wake up from a bad, hay-bed-induced dream, and hurry through the night to Dante's window for some sort of comfort. He wanted to cry into his shoulder with hands running through his hair, and fall asleep clinging to him. He wanted to wake up to his voice, riddled with sleep; with hands running through his hair before the panic set in that they could get caught and Logan scurried home.

He needed that wicked smile and thirst for knowledge, the nights spent laying on the floor, looking at the stars through the dome in the ceiling. When had he stopped being touched like he was the most delicate thing in the world some times, and other times as if he were air being pulled to starved lungs? He knew that feeling now thanks to who, in a perfect world, should have been his mother-in-law. He knew that feeling, and he could say it was exactly the way Dante had held him sometimes, and Logan _needed_ that.

Nobody needed Logan anymore. Dante thought he was dead, Virgil was grown, and Patton was a volcano on the verge of erupting at any given moment. So he was alone in these woods without a soul to know he was here, and nobody needed him anymore. At least when he was in the mirror he'd had a purpose, but for the first time in his life, he found that he had none just as he had nobody, for what use was a mortal without magic or power or connections trying to take down a greater darkness that also happened to be his greatest weakness? He couldn't kill Dante.

Logan would take one look at him and either join him, or cry until something happened to end it.

He shot to his feet, gathering rocks from the creek bank, and just _hurling_ them into the trees as he sobbed and screamed. "Why do I miss you?!" he cried as if Dante could hear him. "How the fuck could you do this to me? I loved you, I loved you, _I loved you!_ " One particularly hard throw chipped the bark off of one of the ancient monuments, leaving a light gash. "You betrayed me, you lied to me, you kept me under a fucking sheet! You took him away from me! I **_hate_** you!"

He could feel his asthma begin to restrict his breathing, but it paled in comparison to being strangled, so he couldn't find it in him to care. All that mattered were the words he never got to say. "You ruined us. You—" Rock. "—you—" Rock. "— _you!_ " Yet another. "We were supposed to be _together_. You **bastard!** We were going to run away and live a normal life, but you didn't listen to me. You _lied_ to me. I can't ever say goodbye to you, and you're not even dead. You _fucking_ bastard!" Rock after rock after rock until his arms and throat were tired and he felt stupid and empty.

For a moment he just stood there, bent over with rasping breath before he collapsed again. "I thought I had a chance to love someone again, but you might have even ruined _that_ because now I can only see you when I look at him," he admitted quietly through his exhaustion. "Magic is a stain in my mind that I can't scrub off. _You_ did this."

He ran his hands up his face. "And yet I know I have to keep going. He needs me. I won't allow him to follow you. I won't lose him too."

It was true that his life had been ripped away from him, and though that was indescribably devastating, he could start again. He didn't have to give in to the grief. Unlike Dante, he was too strong to let something consume him. His life wasn't over, and he was lucky enough to not have aged. He was lucky that he even had those moments with Dante— with Virgil— and he wouldn't give them up for the world.

It was time to let go.

Someone _did_ need him: Patton. He needed him to keep him from the darkness, to remind him of the spark of good in the world, and to be by his side when they tore down the things slowly destroying their home.

Logan sniffled out of determination, and wiped at his face until all the tears were merely the ghosts of salty remnants. He slid his glasses back on calmly. Then he stood and walked out of the woods, leaving a burning trail of yellow chrysanthemums and dark, thorned rose bushes in his wake as a monument to his pain and a willingness to give in to his own magic within. The stain that magic had left: it was more than trauma. He'd gotten to keep the force that had cursed him, and had felt the pull since he'd left the mirror, too afraid to listen, pushing it down out of self-hatred.

But now he knew what he had to do.

It was time he faced the rest of his past so that he could enter the future. 


	24. A Dance With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up together is becoming a new routine for Roman and Virgil, though what they do after that seems as if it will always be ever-changing. Roman convinces Virgil to go to the market, and when they get home, a close encounter begins to change things between them.

Virgil wasn't sure he'd be able to get over the way waking up close to Roman made him feel. Would it always feel like this? Like a sweetened, bright version of anxiety? Or would it fade slowly until he felt normal again as the days Roman continued to insist they sleep in the same bed wore on? Seeing as how this was the third day he'd awoken like this— the other prince's breathing steady against his ear, warm arms enveloping him like the blanket he'd pull around himself tightly before the fire he used to sleep close to, and this absolute glowing _feeling_ filling his chest— there was no telling, for three days was both a long time and hardly any time at all.

Roman seemed to always look unfairly perfect regardless of if he'd just returned from work having managed to burn himself, or more recently, he was asleep like he was now. It was a wonder how Virgil was always the first to wake despite Roman having to work. Maybe it was because all the abrupt changes were leaving him on guard, but who knew? Regardless, that flawless face seemed strangely more perfect in the state of serenity it had taken up, the troubled expression he seemed to always have when awake completely melted away into content softness. Virgil lightly traced the edge of his dirty blond bangs, and closed his eyes again to feign sleep.

It was only fair that Roman get the chance to wake up first, after all. The thought made him softly smirk to himself.

The time came about half an hour later, and the process was possibly the cutest thing he'd ever seen (and he'd seen plenty of things that warranted that label with all the animals that flocked to him.) It was a slow stir at first, one that Virgil risked peeking for, Roman very slightly shifting every few seconds with small grunts and hums. Then he yawned, his brow furrowing as his mouth made a small oval. Virgil shut his eyes again quickly. Yawning usually meant waking, and he refused to be caught staring.

Only, if Roman awoke, he didn't give any sign. He merely pulled Virgil closer, and the way his legs seemed to reach out to cling to his own made Virgil feel like he was going to combust. And yet he relaxed, shamelessly nuzzling into the embrace for the first time, coming to accept that maybe this was just how he was going to have to wake up from now on. So when a soft kiss was left on the top of his head, he simply smiled to himself, and kept hidden against Roman's chest.

Letting Roman get up first so that he could continue to pretend to be asleep only made them stay in bed much longer than they usually would have, and Virgil assumed that was because Roman didn't want to wake him. How difficult were the two of them? Finally, however, came a softly hummed, "It's time to wake up, my dark prince."

Virgil shivered. Then once he'd gathered himself enough, he stretched against Roman, arms reaching behind the other boy and legs sliding against legs, loudly yawning, all topped off with a content grunt. "Oh, I'm yours now, am I?" he slurringly mused, "With the way you're holding me... I'd believe it."

Roman scoffed, a nervous little sound, and Virgil looked up at him just so he could see his embarrassed face. "Hey, you're always the one to—"

"Shut it, Princey." His ears heated up, and he scrunched his nose up at him. No need to dwell on the fact that he was a sleep-clinger. "Now would you mind releasing me so that we can start the day?" he inquired snarkily to cover up the fact that he very much did not want to leave his arms. Ever.

Was that bad?

It must not be, or else Roman wouldn't have insisted he keep sleeping with him. Nor would he have rolled his eyes before he let him go, more than reluctant.

***

The rest of the day turned out to be just as beautiful as that morning, as was the case with the previous day when Roman had dragged him along for a walk in the forest after having started to feel better. (Virgil had caught a rabbit for Roman to hold, and the gentle way he received the creature as if it were the most fragile thing on the planet along with his awed expression made Virgil want to catch a thousand rabbits for him to hold.) Only, today they'd be going much further than the forest. Roman declared he was taking him to the market.

"Won't I be recognized?" Virgil protested, his heart picking up speed as he laid their plates in the sink.

Roman quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. He'd finally put his shirt on after about three days, and Virgil didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed about it... "And how many commoners laid eyes on you while you were in that castle, oppressed by your stepfather?" he inquired, leaning his hand on the counter with his other on his hip, "Because you don't seem like the social type to me." He pressed his fingertips to his chest. " _I_ wouldn't be able to get away with it, but that's only because my father liked to show me off and I did a _lot_ of sneaking out." His finger circled in the general area of Virgil's chest in a lazy point. " _You_ on the other hand..."

Virgil curled his lip. "Yeah yeah, I get it," he sassed. Unable to handle how close Roman was, Virgil turned back to the sink, leaning both hands on the counter and hanging his head. "Doesn't mean it isn't dangerous," he mumbled. He was terrified, in all honesty.

"Hey, look at me," Roman said softly. Virgil tensed, but he relaxed enough so that he could turn his head to look at Roman next to him. He suddenly became aware of how his arms trembled.

Roman gave him a sympathetic look, a soft, assuring smile lighting up his face in a pale glow. Then both of his hands came up to cradle Virgil's face, and the warmth it brought was something so new and unfamiliar to him that he felt his eyes widen in surprise. Why was Roman doing this? He couldn't decide which way to press into the touch, barely restraining himself from nuzzling his cheek into his comfortably calloused hands as if he were a cat in the midst of being petted. It was embarrassing.

"I will keep you safe. I promise," Roman swore in barely more than a whisper.

Virgil was only able to nod in the slightest, for any words he could possibly think of had gone down the drain.

Not but an hour later, the two of them departed, Roman leading him down a trail he seemed to know like the back of his hand. It felt surreal to Virgil. Everything with Roman seemed to feel this way, in fact. The sunlight filtered through the vibrant green trees above them, making them look like stained glass at the first upward turn of his head, the air was cool, and he got this feeling deep inside his chest that he wanted to hold Roman's hand and feel that same rough texture. Only, he didn't do this. He simply kept quiet and enjoyed the outdoors in its full spring bloom.

He scrunched his nose up. "It smells weird out here," he commented. The forest as a whole was like a kind of dirt smell mixed with something sickly sweet, though that wasn't what he was referring to. This smell was _strong_ ; something he'd never experienced before.

Roman snorted beside him, meeting his curious eyes with a glittering warmth that was unique to him exclusively. "You're telling me that you've never had a skunk near the palace? In your garden?" he puzzled. Virgil shook his head. "The castle is so close to the woods, you would think you would know what those foul beasts smelled like."

Virgil certainly had a few questions. "What does a skunk look like? And how do they smell like that?"

Roman raised his eyebrow so high Virgil thought it'd fly off his forehead. "Well... they're sort of big squirrels, mostly black with typically two big white stripes," he explained softly.

Virgil felt his face blanch. So _that's_ why... _oh_...

"And they..." He saw Roman give him a weird look out of the corner of his eye. "What is it?"

He cleared his throat, shaking his head as his cheeks bloomed with red once more. "Nothing, it's just... I uh... I used to feed them all the time," he admitted, wincing, "I called them Skats, after striped cats because I never deemed it necessary to inquire as to their species. It's no wonder the servant that brought in my food all the time fainted when she'd seen me with one." He groaned, burying his face in his hands, and he could hear Roman cracking up beside him. Well _that_ was embarrassing.

He sighed, dropping his hands, and as he did, one bird call stood out against the constant chittering and cooing chorus, a gentle sound like the puff of a Lady of Reishel first learning to play the flute. He perked up. With excitement filling his whole body, he looked to Roman, whose eyes crinkled at his demeanor. "It's Elliot: one of my birds." Roman hummed in understanding.

A reminiscent smile grew on his face, and he further explained. "He was a gift sent from another kingdom when I was...eight I think, and the king didn't seem particularly interested in him, so I stole his cage when everyone was asleep. Dante didn't even notice," he told, letting out a bitter scoff. "After that, I took him out of his cage in my room and fed him some food from the kitchen, took care of him for a few days, and once he looked a bit healthier, I let him go in my garden. I had to hide him from the servants when they'd come in, but I think I liked the thrill of trying not to get caught." He paused, shrugging. "Kept me entertained for a bit."

"That's amazing," Roman said warmly. Elliot came into view then in a flash of blue that stood out like a sore thumb against the neutral colors of the forest, fluttering down to rest on a tree branch a little ways in front of them, bringing a grin to his face.

"I'm glad he remembers me after all this time. He's visited a lot. I'd like to think it's because he loves me, but he probably just wants my food," Virgil laughed with the other prince joining. He paused walking when they got close enough, motioning for Roman to stop as well. "He's probably shy because you're here, but I'll see if I can get him to come d—"

Apparently Elliot had been way ahead of him, swooping down to land on his head and lovingly pick at his hair with his beak. "—own." Virgil cracked up. "Elliot, cut it out!" he giggled, cocking his arm up like a ramp from his head so that the bird would climb onto it. Strutting, he complied, fluffing out his feathers haughtily with his head craned high. Virgil lightly stroked a finger up and down the soft fluff of his throat and against the underside of his beak affectionately, to which he got a love-bite in response. Elliot never bit hard enough to hurt him.

Virgil glanced up at the other awed prince with a light smirk. "You wanna say hello to Elliot?" he mused. Roman swallowed, nodding carefully. He looked a little scared, but fascinated nonetheless. "Hold out your arm like I'm doing," he instructed.

Roman complied quickly. "This is certainly um... not a rabbit," he gulped with a little head tilt. He found it endearing how nervous he was.

"Just don't freak out, and you'll be fine," he promised. "He can smell fear. Isn't that right, Elliot?" His voice was like an obnoxious mother talking to her babe, and he did it on purpose just to tease Roman. He could practically hear the prince whimper.

With that, he angled his arm down, nudging the beautiful bird over in Roman's direction, to which he seemingly happily obliged, clucking a little. Roman's eyes, which had screwed tightly shut at the sign of Virgil's movement, now peeked open, his eyebrow raising until both beautiful orbs of green came into full view, and he beamed. "Well hello, Sir Elliot. You're quite dashing," he greeted in an exaggerated version of his smooth accent. Virgil melted.

The bird moved further up Roman's arm, and Virgil put his own down, rotating his shoulder. It started combing its beak through Roman's hair, lightly picking at it. Virgil broke down laughing at Roman's horrified expression. "It seems he likes you, your majesty," Virgil jested. Roman stuck his tongue out before Elliot grew disinterested in his hair, and instead decided the strings on the front of Roman's shirt were much more fascinating, craning down to peck at them, and in a flurry he was suddenly hanging upside down from his shirt collar, bending up to attack the string.

Virgil was cracking up, but he gathered himself enough to help the other prince at the glare he gave him. "Come on Elliot, that's enough." He lightly placed his hand on the bird's back, trying to coax his talons off of the shirt. Finally, Elliot twisted over into his palms, ruffling his feathers again, and took off back into the trees, having decided he was bored with his visit. Virgil and Roman barely had to share a glance before they started laughing.

The sound of their mirth quieted until the songs of the birds were all that filled the air. "Let's get going. I want to get lunch soon," Roman suggested. Virgil gave a short nod, and they were on their way again.

A long, pleasant silence passed, then Roman said, "Have I told you about that time my brother kept a raccoon as a pet?"

Virgil barked out a shocked laugh, listening to him the rest of the way to town, even throwing in a few of his own stories about the garden, the staff, and general castle shenanigans. They seemed to have no limit on things they could talk about. As soon as one subject ended, another picked right up like the tunes of a tavern musician. By the time they'd arrived in the village, both of their mouths were dry and their diaphragms ached from laughing.

The buildings gradually started growing closer together, and suddenly the path opened up to two lines of booths beneath colorful canopies that seemed to stretch forever on either side. Sweet smells of cooking meat, smoke from the fires in most of the homes, and flowers mixed in with the less pleasant things like waste, livestock, and sweat, covering them up just enough to make them bearable. Virgil tensed at the sight of so many people having to weave briskly through each other, pulling the hood of Roman's heavy cloak further over his head. Unfortunately that couldn't block out the jumbled voices of the crowd or the even louder ones of those trying to advertise their product, nor did it silence his deafening worries. They were going to notice him, or he'd bump into the wrong person and then he'd be in trouble— oh god, and what if someone thought he was stealing and he got arrested and was sent to be judged before his stepfather and he killed him—

"—irgil?" His thoughts snapped back into the real world where his feet were frozen in the dirt. " _Viiiirgil_ ," Roman lilted, waving his hand in front of his face. He shook his head a little, looking at him with his eyebrows raised in questioning to show he was paying attention. "You good?"

He really wasn't, he thought, for his heart had only ever beat this fast when he'd ran from the huntsman, but Roman didn't need to know that. What if he thought he was weird or a coward? He just wasn't used to this many people, that was all. Hesitantly, he nodded his head, though Roman didn't really seem convinced by that and Virgil didn't blame him.

Roman screwed his mouth up in thought. "We can go back if you'd like, I just didn't want you to feel like you were even more isolated and trapped than before by staying out there all the time. I understand how hard it is..." he empathized.

"No!" Roman flinched at his anxious outburst, so he looked away and twisted his foot into the ground, sighing to calm down. "I just... I don't know, actually. I'm just nervous, I suppose." The word nervous hardly covered it; try "existentially terrified."

After a moment, he risked a peek at Roman out of the corner of his eye to see his reaction. He looked oddly... soft. His eyebrows were just slightly inclined, and his mouth twisted into a gentle smile, eyes sparkling. Virgil wasn't used to that, and his eyes darted back down. "What?" he muttered, skin crawling under his gaze.

"Nothing," he mused before his tone became normal again. "Would it help if I held your hand?" The question seemed genuine.

Virgil's eyes snapped back up to Roman. Was he crazy?! He slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing he'd shared that thought out loud.

Roman simply chuckled. "Such a prince," he teased, making Virgil certainly confused as to what that had to do with anything. "It's not your fault, though. I was like that at first." Virgil shot him a questioning look that felt more aggressive than he'd meant, but that was because of the racing going on in his chest. Luckily, he explained himself. "The people here are very affectionate, so it's completely normal. It's nothing like castle customs... Look."

Virgil's eyes followed to where Roman had gestured to two old men walking with their arms linked, and his shoulders instantly relaxed. "Okay," he exhaled, shyly holding out his hand a little. Roman smiled and took it, and Virgil couldn't help but feel safe, self-consciously holding back his own grin. It was a difficult feat.

"After you, your majesty," Roman teased, swinging their linked hands behind them to bow with his free arm gestured toward the market. Virgil smirked and flicked his forehead while he was vulnerable before advancing forward, dragging a loudly offended Roman with him.

***

Hours later, as the sun was just beginning to slip down beneath the horizon, painting a breathtaking orange glow onto the trees, the pair tumbled through their front door laughing after having fought to get there first. His smile fell, and he paused as he wondered when he'd begun to think of this house— this home— as _theirs_. The expected question of concern from Roman came, to which he picked his grin right back up with an enthusiastic, "Yeah, Princey. Just got distracted, sorry."

Roman beamed. "Right." He shut the door, dulling the noise the screaming cicadas made, nudging him further into the living room. "Give us a twirl, then," he encouraged excitedly.

Virgil thought he was dramatic, but he rolled his eyes fondly regardless, and spun with the sides of the purple cloak they'd bought bunched in his hands so that it made a rippling sound when the air caught it. He'd begged Roman not to spend so much on the expensive thing just because he liked the color purple, telling him he could use the money for something else, but the stubborn prince ignored him and went to pay anyway, his excuse being that Virgil couldn't use his cloak forever, especially since it got so cold all the time. After a moment, he slowed to a stop and looked at him with an eyebrow quirked. "Happy?"

"Incredibly," Roman confirmed. He tapped his fingers against his legs as he seemed to think. Virgil liked the face he got when he did such things, especially the way he bit his lip and cutely stared at the ground as if it had the answer. Finally, he looked back up, and Virgil would've teased him about it being his new record if not for what came out of his mouth next. "Well, I'm too wound-up to be able to sleep just yet, so... I was thinking that maybe you and I... dance? Prince to prince? I know there's no music, but we don't need that to know what we're doing." He wrung his hands together.

The look on his face was too damn hopeful for Virgil to say no. He chuckled, shaking his head fondly in the hopes his blush went unnoticed, and gave his answer. "I don't see why not. Let's see if you're still polished." Making it a challenge made it seem less like he had another reason for agreeing, right?

"Let's see if your kingdom is up to par with their dance teachers," Roman jabbed right back.

"Then it's on," Virgil threatened.

"Oh, it is, Wil-lame Shake-and-Sneer." That was _bad_ , even for Roman.

Virgil drew his head back in reproach. "What was **_that_**?" he questioned.

Roman's cheeks darkened, and he mumbled an, "I don't know. It was a stretch..."

Virgil just snorted before moving towards him, taking Roman's right hand and placing his own right on his hip.

"O-oh... _You're_ doing the male part?" Roman stuttered, surprised. He'd really assumed that he would take it, hadn't he?

"You really think that your toes would survive if _I_ tried to do the female part? Funny." Virgil scoffed. "Besides, with how rusty you are, it's probably best I take the lead," he teased.

Roman rolled his eyes as if it would keep his adorable little ego from getting bruised. "Whatever you say, your highness," he grumbled, but Virgil could see the fond twinkle behind his eyes, and it made his face hot once he realized that the reason he noticed such a small detail was because of how close they were. His thumb twitched on his waist.

He quickly cleared his throat as if to shoo away the thoughts. "Right... So are we going to dance, or are you going to pout all night?" He smirked, cocking his head in questioning. It felt nice to be the confident one for a change.

He suddenly found himself graced by Roman's twinkling smile, and he was sad to see that Roman tried to hide it, aiming it at the ground to the side of himself. Then once he'd gathered himself, he pointed out, "You were the one who wanted to lead, your majesty. So lead." He nodded his head forward to emphasize his point in an encouraging manner.

Virgil sighed dramatically. "If you insist." He glanced down to their feet, and noticed how Roman followed. "Watch your toes," he warned, and then he began.

With the first step, Roman moved with slow hesitance, and Virgil made sure to match his pace, gently guiding him through the steps as he got used to both the flow itself and having to do it in the opposite direction he was raised to his whole life. Virgil was a bit better off, but he still had to count in his head the steady _'one, two, three; one, two, three; one...'_ However, they'd soon moved on to a more natural sort of dance with a grace that made their cloaks swish lightly. Virgil forgot all about counting, Roman stopped looking at their feet, and eyes met with conscious focus. His breath caught in his throat.

_There was that heated tingling in his face again..._

"Can I spin you?" he asked suddenly. It'd be a reprieve from the way Roman looked at him that made him want to put meaning to it, but he wasn't sure if their little waltz around the common room included spinning Roman as if he had a ball gown on.

Yet despite having expected reproach, he was met with a spark of warmth from his partner— in dance, of course... "Why yes you may, your highness," he softly lilted in the rich way he spoke.

Virgil felt entirely all too fond for his liking over those simple words. Nonetheless, he removed his left hand from Roman's waist, and gently gripping the tips of his fingers, spun him in a circle. It was then that he got both the idea and the confidence to pull Roman into him, his arm circled around his chest, catching his eyes knowingly as Roman obliged by giving him his right hand to dip him. And he did, supporting his back. There was a perfect moment where they watched each other then, bright green and smooth brown locking, breath slightly shaken. Virgil understood in that second that he wanted to know Roman more intimately than he'd ever known another before.

All of this had to be ruined, however, by their nervous hands being slick enough to slip from each other's grasp at the same moment Virgil's strength failed him to where Roman landed flat on his arse with a high-pitched screech. Virgil winced apologetically before breaking down into giggles. At least it hadn't been that far of a drop, he thought, and Roman's pouty glare confirmed he was only wounded in mind rather than body. "Sorry," he quickly said, offering his hand again.

Roman begrudgingly took it, and they both pulled for him to stand until Roman was indignantly straightening his posture. "I demand a redo."

Virgil shrugged, laughing a little. "If you insist," he conceded. He offered his right hand to Roman's left, and again he spun him, pulling him snuggly into his side. This time he held tighter to the soothingly rough-textured hands— made sure his arm rested low enough on his back for the weight to be easily supported... And in a delicate moment of far more intimate closeness than either had anticipated, Roman's back slightly arched, Virgil noticed how he seemed to fit perfectly into the crook of his arm, and neither spoke. There was a certain shift in that moment... Virgil didn't quite understand how he knew, he just _did_ , and it scared him so badly he could've made an entirely new superstition about how if your breath mingled with someone else's then you'd fall in love as easily as if you'd been poisoned by Puck's magic flower. That way it wouldn't be his fault, really, if he were to fall in love...

Virgil gently guided Roman to stand again, still in this trance they'd found themselves in.

Or maybe Roman was a siren: a fae of the forest who had stolen away his breath— because it was very much gone— after he'd made the mistake of wandering into his home and giving him his name, and now he was here to stay forever...

There was something they seemed to both know deep down because Roman looked the way he felt, and suddenly there was very little space between them at all. Their foreheads touched. Had Virgil gotten them this close, or had it been Roman? Had they both moved?

His arm was still wrapped around Roman's waist, but now it kept him close with purpose, their fingers slowly twining together as if to shift into a much more intimate dance. Every inch of his body thrummed with heat— he knew he wanted this with his entire being— so he allowed their noses to press together as if the very things were two lovers cheek to cheek themselves. His softly panting breath caught again where it had been making the thin strip of air between their mouths comfortably humid, and he glanced with wide eyes to Roman after a longing stare at his tauntingly soft-looking lips.

And when he felt the very beginning of movement from Roman, he panicked. In a matter of seconds, he'd let him go and was stumbling back away from him across the wooden floor with a racing heart. This couldn't happen— Virgil was just being hopeful. And... even if it could, it would never be allowed.

After catching his breath, he met the eyes of a hurt-looking Roman with a nervous smile, coming to the conclusion that he'd act like what he thought just happened hadn't happened at all, and that they were just dancing. Though, it was very hard to plaster on a smile when his prince rolled his lip through his teeth with his slightly drawn-together brow, eyes cast downwards where his lightly clenching fists pointed. It was impossible, actually, with the way his chest heaved like Virgil's emotions, and yet somehow he managed it. "I think I'm going to go to bed now. It's been a long day," he excused, rubbing at his arm and feeling the rough material of one of Roman's shirts against his skin.

Finally, he looked up from the floor. "Yeah... okay," he responded all too quietly, "Let me know when you're done changing."

There was a twang in Virgil's chest, but he moved to the stairs nonetheless, turning to give Roman an apologetic smile on the way up. 


	25. The Messengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A restless Logan seeks out Patton. The queen isn't done with them yet.

After tethering the horses to the fence, Logan knocked quietly on the door, what-ifs racing through his head. What if they weren't there? What if they weren't happy to see him? He knocked again, louder this time.

"Hello?" a woman's voice, so very familiar to Logan's ears, asked as the door was pulled open. Then she gave a sharp gasp.

"Mother," Logan said, his voice breaking slightly. And it certainly was her, though she looked older and sadder than she had when he'd known her, so many years ago.

He quickly found arms thrown around his chest, which pinned his arms to his sides so that all he could really do was bury his face in his mother's shoulder and pat her sides awkwardly.

"My boy," she said tearfully, holding him fiercely. She pulled back to hold him at arm's length, looking him over carefully. She was even an inch or so taller than Logan, so he had to look up slightly to meet her eyes as he wiped away tears.

"What's all this? Who's there?" another familiar voice asked. Logan had to lean to look around his mother, dropping the saddlebags to the floor inside the door, as she turned her head toward the voice.

"Father," Logan breathed, laughing wetly.

Logan's father, who was a short yet intimidating man, gasped and almost immediately burst into tears. "Logan?" he asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

Logan nodded, moving to step past his mother. "It's me," he said softly.

"You... you look the same as I remember you..." his mother said, placing her hand on Logan's shoulder.

Logan nodded, turning his attention back to her. "It's a long story."

Soon they were sitting on the old chairs Logan and his parents had sat in when he was a child, Logan telling most of his long story. His mother nodded as she listened, and his father often looked up to the ceiling as he tried to process the information he was receiving.

When he was done, silence fell over them for a few moments, then both parents threw their arms around their son. His mother whispered a quick prayer, "To protect against King Dante's darkness." His father just rubbed Logan's back.

Logan cried again. He couldn't help it, though he would have stopped if he could have. "Mama... Papa..." he gasped out through his tears. He never wanted to leave. But there was a part of him that knew... He had to go back for Patton.

***

Patton cried himself to sleep that night. He lay in a nicer room than he'd ever slept in, his shoes and clothes discarded on the floor (he'd been provided with a nightshirt) and his head on a downy pillow, trying not to drown in his tears. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd cried like this— not when he'd never had a mother, and his kind father died years ago, leaving him scared and alone at the ripe age of fifteen— it just hurt worse. Somehow, it hurt worse.

Everything was so uncertain. Not only did he have these newly-discovered powers that he had no idea how to control, (he was a very emotional person, and strange things always had happened around him like the time his horse came back to life), but he had all this responsibility on his shoulders. There was a whole kingdom counting on him, for God's sake. Though none of those things were as painful or as terrifying as the fact that Logan left him... just like everyone else.

Stranded. That's what he was: stranded in this vast and empty, overrated hunk of cold stone. The queen claimed Logan would come back, but he really wouldn't, would he?

Just when he thought he could escape, could mean something, could be important and have someone who might come to love him... he'd messed it up just by existing. Though, he didn't exactly blame Logan, for once you've been burned, you become wary of fire. Patton was fire. What if he became just like the king? It seemed ridiculous now because he'd only just discovered he had magic today, and could barely do a simple tracking spell the queen taught him, but wasn't that how Dante began? Innocent and curious, simple, Logan by his side...

A few tears didn't make it to the pillow, rather coating his lips with bittersweet saltwater, and he let out a pitiful sob. Well... at least the size of the castle served one good purpose. No one could hear him weep.

***

When Logan had hit the surface of his old bed, however uncomfortable, he'd been smiling. What wasn't there to smile about? Both his parents were alive, he hadn't given them a heart attack, and they'd met him with tears and open arms. Everything was so perfect, and yet...

Now Logan frowned, alone enough to think sensibly without the filter of other people's judgement. He thought about the parts of his story he hadn't told them: the passionate affair he'd had with Dante that left him broken like this, the new boy whom he placed all his hope in, and... the part of his curse that even being shattered couldn't scrub his soul of: his magic. He told himself over and over the conclusion he'd come to in the woods. 'Patton needs me, Patton needs me, Patton needs me.'

He couldn't let his senseless dreams of normalcy get in the way of what he had to do, the loose ends he had to tie, the people and the kingdom he had to save. He was never meant for this life, truly, he just wanted what he couldn't have, and his real purpose waited back at the castle, back on a horse, and back in Reishel to end it all. The magic, the adventure, the romance...

Soft blue eyes and even softer blond curls plagued his mind. What was he doing right now? What if the queen had done something to him? What if he wandered the kingdom now, alone and cold? (Logan had both their horses, having gone back to the inn to get their things and pay for the room, and moved the animals to be tethered out back behind his childhood home so they could graze in the grass there.) He didn't exactly have transportation unless the queen provided it to him.

Logan caved into his worries, closed his eyes, and delved into the main source of his magic. It was the part he feared most but could instinctually feel in the back of his mind like the accidentally-seen last sentence of a book, falling into the unfeeling darkness all over again.

The realm of mirrors.

"Show me Patton," he ordered the void, and the void listened.

Logan honestly hadn't expected the answer he'd gotten. Perhaps a simple vision or image like the ones he used to display, yes, but not this.

Logan found himself in a mirror on the wall of a dim castle bedroom. The only light came from the moon shining through the window to his left, and from his own blue glow, casting itself directly on the lavish bed where a trembling Patton lay curled in on himself facing away from the mirror. The bed— the room, even— was so much bigger than what he was likely used to that it seemed to swallow him. Hiccuping sobs came to a gasping halt, and everything in the room seemed to freeze for a moment. Not even the dark wardrobe or the nightstand creaked.

"Logan?" came his hoarse, unsure voice. A few shaky inhales wracked his body, and Logan pitied him. How many times had he cried like that himself?

"I'm here," he confirmed gently, guiltily. He never should have left him; Patton was just as scared as he was.

Propping himself up on his elbow, the huntsman scrubbed at his eyes before blindly feeling for his glasses on the table beside the bed, and once he'd found them and got them on his face, he turned to view Logan. He untangled his legs from the black sheets, and Logan watched as his small feet hit the cold, gray ground to slowly approach the wall. "How are you here?" he whispered, tracing the frame with his brow furrowed. Logan knew it was all he could manage.

The technical answer washed up on the shore of Logan's mind like a wave instead of the precise arrow the answers used to be. "I..." He sighed. How did he even begin? He wanted to apologize so badly, but he was scared of unleashing his feelings again, so he stuck to what he knew how to do: answer. "I seem to have been able to keep the magic I was cursed with in a way; use it for my own purposes," he explained quietly.

Patton searched his eyes, sniffling and involuntarily gasping a few times from crying so hard. "What would happen if I shattered the mirror? Would you be here?" he asked, hopeful.

Logan waited, listened. The answer wasn't what he'd wanted to come out of the ocean. "...I'm afraid it would just end the connection. It'd feel like dying to me, like one of those dreams you have of falling but worse." Logan despised his own response, wanting to be with him just as much as Patton did because if he could only just hold him, everything would be alright.

Patton sighed heavily, eyes welling with tears of loneliness again, and his mouth tightened into a frown to try to stop them. "I just want you to be here," he whimpered, and the tears spilled over mercilessly, "I'm scared."

Out of habit, Logan reached forward to put his hand to the glass to at least feel some semblance of closeness, only, when he did, his hand never stopped... It just kept going, straight into the room. He gasped sharply with shock like the moment you miss a step on the stairs, and Patton flinched, nearly falling over. Then once Logan had gathered himself... "Well that was unexpected."

The huntsman, who'd looked terrified only moments before, now laughed with relief. It seemed he would have company tonight, after all.

"Step back," Logan instructed, "I'm coming through." Patton quickly complied, and Logan had never seen someone look so elated moments after utter devastation. Awkwardly sticking his leg through the small oval, he reluctantly realized this wasn't going to work with how far down the floor was.

Patton seemed to notice the complication just as he did, which led to an amusedly sympathetic look. Logan just scrunched his face up and pouted, letting out a whine, and they both began to crack up. Patton pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sit down, stick your legs through if you can fit them both, and I'll grab you," he said, easily solving their ridiculous problem.

Logan nodded, pulling his leg back in before he sat, and dangled both feet out of the silver frame as if he were merely in a tall chair. From here, he could honestly just jump, so he did, ducking his head, and his feet hit the floor with a loud smack. The sudden relief of an atmosphere and something beneath his feet washed over him and made him giddy. He looked at his arms. 'No longer blue,' he noted. In fact, when he looked back, the mirror was back to being just a normal, cold mirror, leaving the room significantly darker. He wondered if he could get back through it, but doubted it. He would see his parents again when they went back for the horses, he told himself. And... again after that; he had to believe he would see them again.

Patton stared at him with wide eyes for probably two seconds, and then surged forward, squeezing the breath out of Logan. Once he'd reoriented himself, he smiled fondly. His arms found their way around Patton to hold him close. "I didn't think you'd come back," the huntsman whispered.

Logan carded his fingers through Patton's hair. "I did. And I won't leave again; I was merely being foolish."

Patton's face was pressed into his chest by now, muffling his voice in a way that made Logan feel like mush. "You're not foolish. You've been through a lot," he argued.

Logan bit his lip and nodded before pressing his nose into the bed of curls atop Patton's head, breathing him in, his scent smelling faintly of rain and pine needles. Then he squeezed him tight once more. "Come on," he coaxed, "it's been a long day. We need to sleep." He ran his hands slowly up and down his back, feeling the soft material of the unfamiliar sleep shirt he wore, but Patton's strong arms never released their vice grip around his waist.

"What about the horses?"

"I've got them. In the morning, after we've wrapped up here, we can go back to my house and retrieve them."

A relaxed, grateful sigh. His grip loosened just a little, though Patton still procrastinated letting him go. "Did you see your parents?"

Logan laughed, shaking his head fondly. "I did, and I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," he promised.

"Will you hold me?" Even without the magic, Logan still knew the answer in a heartbeat.

He opened his mouth to say, 'If you let me go for a few moments,' but all that came out was an instant, "Yes."

Patton looked up at him in surprise, his chin resting cutely against Logan's sternum. And oh, was he beautiful, even with red-rimmed eyes and tear stains. He knew it, too. Logan's look of adoration said it all. It seemed that was all the assurance he needed to let go, barely stepping back an inch before Logan scooped him up, cradling him close to a chest filled with newfound warmth.

Patton gasped, but wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed his face there nonetheless. It was warm and tender and more than anything Logan could have ever asked for all in one simple gesture. And just like that, the two lone heroes out to save their world when no one else seemed to care had made up, ready to tackle whatever was thrown at them next.

***

The next morning the two of them cleaned up as nicely as they could, walking arm in arm to the throne room doors where the guards permitted their entrance without a word, the doors swinging open. Both doors opening was a symbol of high regard to whoever entered, and Logan was frankly surprised, never having experienced it before. He didn't let it show, however, and his strides down the aisle were done with coldness. This was a mere courtesy to avoid more enemies than they needed. Trust him, if Logan could have ignored Ophelia for the rest of his days, he would have.

She stared them both down with sunlight from the high windows turning her hair gold, and Logan got satisfaction in her surprise. He showed strength in speaking first. "If that was all you were going to graciously provide us, then we will take our leave," he spit proudly.

Her grip on the arms of the throne visibly tightened. "If you control your bitter tongue and spare me the sarcasm, I might provide you with more," she shot back, and at their silence, she leaned back in her seat comfortably. If Logan could get away with snapping her neck, he would. "How did you get in here anyways, my child?"

His whole body tensed, and he felt Patton's thumb stroke his shoulder assuringly where he held onto his arm. "The mirror," he answered, refusing to give further explanation. He had known precisely what she meant by 'my child.'

"I see," she merely commented. Her knowledge went far beyond what Logan could understand. Unprompted, at least. After a pregnant pause, she sighed. "Well, regardless, I will contact The Society to aid you if needed, and you have three days to make the rest of your preparations before I send my army. It should take them roughly two days to get there, so you'll really have five days."

Logan was shocked, and if he'd been holding Patton's hand, he would've squeezed it in excitement. They had a chance. They actually had a chance! With her connections to the magical forces across the land, and her military power combined with the possibility of Eloria's, they could very well take down Dante.

Logan may not have enjoyed her methods, but he could at least respect that she got results, so he pulled Patton with him to kneel, bowing his head. "Thank you, your majesty."

"Oh, don't grovel," she complained, though there was a hint of teasing in her voice. When he and Patton had stood once more, she tilted her head, waves of hair spilling over today's light blue dress. "How is your father?" she inquired, though she likely already knew. "He was quite the wonderful tutor. I heard he and your mother made a miraculous recovery from an unknown illness a few years ago..."

Logan's heart beat a little faster. Had they been sick? And if they had, she made it sound like she was the reason for the "miraculous recovery," which Logan didn't know whether to be grateful or unsettled about. He cleared his throat. "He is doing well, your majesty. They were both quite happy to see me alive," he responded levelly.

She hummed in acknowledgement, rapping her fingers against the arms of the throne before standing up decisively, the fabric of her dress shifting against itself as she did so. Gathering it up in both fists, she seemed to glide towards them. Logan swallowed. He could see her barely-there smile lines with how close she was, and she inspected the both of them for a long moment of uncomfortable silence: circling, prodding, lifting at their arms... Then, whatever it was that she found, it appeared to disappoint her, and her mouth pulled into a frown before her entire face lit right back up in a chillingly wicked way.

"You boys need better clothes if you're to serve as generals in this war of magic," she mused, "You won't need armor— it's best you stay away from the actual fighting— so this won't be too difficult..." Her mouth twisted up to the side as she tapped her chin, studying them with her eyes. She gestured to Logan first, then Patton. "With your skin tones, you'd look good in navy blue... and a lighter blue— maybe gray— would suit you. I'll get the tailor. Follow me!" she announced, throwing her hands up and walking past the both of them towards the doors.

Patton gave Logan a bewildered, incredulous look that spoke a thousand words with his eyes wide and the rest of his face scrunched. "What was that?!" he mouthed. Logan cackled— truly cackled, which was the first time he'd made such a noise in years— but the regret was instant, and he had to slap a hand over his mouth. He'd just cackled... at the Queen.

***

Logan adjusted the blue coat, running his fingers over the silver metal buttons and the black embroidered pattern on both shoulders in self-satisfaction. Around his neck was a medallion on a navy blue ribbon that matched the scarf tied around his waist, and Logan didn't quite understand why he wore it, for aside from its star shape, its circular center was blank. The rest of his outfit consisted of a black vest and pants— both with similar buttons to the coat— with nice boots that were good for travel. Originally it had all been too big or too small, but the clothes abruptly fit snugly after the Queen subtly flicked her wrist.

"Um..." came Patton's uncertain voice from behind the gold-painted changing divider, "Is there... another piece to this?" His voice ended on a higher pitch as if he'd winced, piquing Logan's curiosity.

"No," Ophelia replied shortly, continuing to pick at her nails boredly while they waited.

"What if it's cold?" Why was he so nervous, and what could possibly be wrong with the outfit?

The Queen brought her hands down in aggravation, rolling her eyes. "Then either borrow your boyfriend's jacket or use your magic." Logan's face heated up, for he wasn't used to the title, especially not coming from someone else.

She turned to face the divider to direct her voice at Patton. "You have good arms..." she pointed out wisely, "There's no reason to be shy." Though she spoke regally, she did so in a way that was far more casual than most royalty.

It must run in the family.

Logan's thoughts were completely derailed, however, as a shy-looking Patton stepped out, his arms just as bare as his feet. The Queen had chosen a light gray, sleeveless cloak with an equally sleeveless, baby blue V-neck and loosely-fitting tan pants. All of which certainly looked as soft and well-fitting as Logan's own new outfit. A black belt that looked more like two belts crossed over each other rested loosely on his hips where two new daggers were sheathed. They had matching beautiful white handles made of what appeared to be opal, no doubt expensive.

Logan was speechless. Patton looked... incredible, breathtaking, roguishly handsome, and the freckles running down both of his arms were perfectly complemented by the gray. He tried to ignore how the Queen smirked out of the corner of his eye. "It suits you very well," was all Logan could manage to choke out. Luckily it was enough to make Patton smile, his body language opening up more confidently.

"You really think so?"

"Of course," he responded warmly.

Ophelia cleared her throat, gaining their attention, and she gestured to the clothes draped over the top of the divider. "You don't mind if I have these incinerated, do you?"

Logan snorted. "Please," he jokingly begged, pushing his glasses up. "I've been wearing the same outfit for eighteen years." He wasn't very sentimental when it came to clothes. He knew what he needed to survive, and he acquired it, keeping nothing else. He didn't live the kind of domestic life that allowed it.

"I don't mind either," Patton chimed in.

The Queen looked pleased, clapping her hands together once loudly. "Good. Then you can be on your way," she announced, "Patton, the servants are waiting outside, and they will provide you rations for the journey and a new bow. I'd like to speak to Logan alone for a moment."

They both glanced to each other, Patton's eyes containing worry, and Logan responding with a nod of assurance. He would be okay. With one last look, Patton reluctantly passed him and slipped out of the heavy wooden door. Logan turned his attention to the Queen with a raised eyebrow, and he folded his arms over his chest expectantly. "Yes, your highness?"

She sighed heavily, and her shoulders almost seemed to sag in the slightest, barely perceptible to anyone who wasn't as observant as Logan. "If it comes down to killing my son, I've taught your hunter a tracking spell," she informed, "You are to find your son and make him king. He is the true heir to Reishel, and the only one the people will accept."

Logan's breath caught in his throat, her words hitting him like the worst of chills. He'd known he was going to have to kill Dante— that's what this was all about— but he'd never heard it spoken like that. So seriously, so grimly. But at the very same time, he had a burning flame of hope that he would get to see Virgil. That was all that mattered. "Alright," he whispered with a finalizing nod.

***

Patton took a sharp breath as their boots hit the beginning of the bridge. It smelled like wet moss and old stone. "What did she say to you back there?" Those were the first words that either of them had spoken since he'd left that room, and Logan had been so deep in thought that he visibly flinched, nervous grip tightening on the strap of his satchel. His hands were sweaty against its leather although spring left the air cool.

'I was wrong. Patton isn't the supernova... you are.'

He shook his head to rid it of her voice. "Just that we were to find Virgil after we kill Dante." He caught himself. "If we kill him..."

Patton's brow furrowed, and Logan swallowed. "Well I know that," Patton said. "Why would she have me leave the room if that's all she had to say?"

A chill ran through him when Patton stopped walking to turn to him. "Please don't hide things from me, Lo," he begged, his eyes pained behind his circular frames. "You're all I have."

Guilt seeped into his stomach and made a home there, but Logan wasn't quite ready to tell Patton what was eating at him because he didn't even understand what it meant yet: those words, marking him as dangerous. "She made me her diplomat," he told him, pushing his words with a certain force so that it would sound important. It wasn't a lie, though it wasn't quite the full truth either.

"Oh..." Patton's voice was quiet. Understanding.

Believing.

Patton turned forward and began walking again, Logan following him, his shoulders relaxing in relief. "That's why your medallion thing has that thing on it," the huntsman pointed out.

Logan's hand instinctively went to it, holding it in his fist so that he could feel the metal imprint of the owl with a snake in its talons pressing against his palm, and he gave a short nod. "Yes... We're her messengers."

Patton reached behind himself to wrap his own hand around the curved bow on his back, and his thumb brushed up and down part of the carving on it. It depicted two light snakes trapped within the dark wood, twining the handle as if to strangle it. His cloak caught the wind, billowing out behind him. "Then we better go deliver our message."


	26. Leak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman is there in a heartbeat when Virgil needs him most, and he knows just how to cheer him up.

Roman’s head was left spinning as he watched Virgil disappear into his room, his elegant cloak dragging on the worn stairs behind him. He wasn’t blind: he knew what had just happened, but he couldn’t help but question if any part of it was all in his head. Had Virgil leaned closer or had he just wanted him to? Did the thought of kissing Roman even cross his mind? What was his reason for stumbling away? 

He slid his hands up his face in miserable, yearning frustration, tugging on the black silk ribbon that kept his cloak tied around his shoulders, and threw it over the arm of the couch. The memory of it being draped over Virgil mere hours before made his heart stutter even more. He plopped down, beginning to unlace his boots. Perhaps it was best if he gave Virgil space tonight and slept down here, he convinced himself, though he knew he was only avoiding the confrontation of his own feelings. Not only was he embarrassed, but having Virgil cling to him like his life depended on it after that seemed like torture. 

Sighing, he moved to blow out the lantern on the kitchen counter, shutting its glass door once more with the sound of the metal hinges squeaking ringing throughout the dark cottage. The second he laid down, thoughts of Virgil began to plague him. That’s when he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. 

He slid one arm beneath his head, opting to stare at the ceiling, then brought his fingers up to his lips after a moment of thought. The memory of Virgil’s warm breath ghosted his skin, and he couldn’t help but imagine that very moment of close intimacy over and over. What would’ve happened if Virgil hadn’t moved away? His thoughts strayed to that very scenario against his will, igniting a blush from ear to ear. 

After a few silent moments of letting his mind run wild, he realized he was right in giving Virgil space, for his stormy prince never did call down to him to let him know if he was done changing. Perhaps he’d forgotten. Or fallen asleep. Or maybe he really was upset with Roman, but over what, exactly? Somewhere between the streams of thoughts, worries, and fantasies, he drifted off into a light sleep. 

Pained, fearful screams from upstairs had Roman shooting up, his heart pounding as he scrambled to form a single coherent thought. His chest wound burned at the sudden movement, but he hardly cared, for the beginning of sobs sounded throughout the home. 

**_Virgil_ ** . 

With an overwhelming instinct to protect him, Roman raced up the stairs, and arrived breathless in his bedroom doorway. He never should have slept on the couch. Virgil had his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his side pressed against the headboard to make himself as small as possible. Roman watched for a brief moment filled with concern that churned his stomach. He noticed the way Virgil’s back swelled and shrank raggedly with his breathing, and wondered what nightmare could have caused this.  _ ‘At least he’s not hurt,’  _ he thought, somewhat relieved. __

His hands slipped away from their grip on the door frame, and he slowly entered the room to comfort him. “Stormcloud?” His voice was quiet, and he didn’t expect a response, only wanting Virgil to know that he was there without startling him. Nothing seemed to be able to break its way through his loud, uncontrollable crying. His pace quickened to reach him, softly climbing onto the right side of the bed, sitting back on his heels. When Roman tried to reach out to him, Virgil tensed and curled further in on himself. Roman drew his hand back. 

“Virgil, it’s okay. I’m here,” he soothed. “Can I touch you?”

Roman waited patiently as Virgil tried to get air into his lungs. “Yeah.” It had to be forced through his constant and heavy string of sobs like an arrow, and he felt it pierce his heart. 

Roman gently placed both of his palms on Virgil’s back, rubbing soothing pathways along it as a slow start to getting Virgil to fully warm up to his presence. He was shocked to discover the effect it had on him. Before Roman knew what was happening, Virgil had uncurled himself, whipping around to throw himself into his arms. Roman had to steady himself on impact so that they didn’t fall off the bed, but he was more glad than anything to be able to keep Virgil safe in the haven of his embrace despite the pain in his chest. 

Desperate arms that clung to his neck and a tear-soaked face pressing into his skin softened Roman’s heart just a bit more like most things involving Virgil did. (He wondered how many more of these moments he had left before his heart was absolute mush.) He could feel his cries reverberate off of his skin and how violently they shook the prince, so Roman protected him more fiercely with a tighter embrace, and he could feel them begin to ease up, if only a little. After a moment, he scooped him up and shifted to sit down against the headboard with Virgil cradled in his lap. The other didn’t let go of him for a second. 

“Shh,” he whispered, “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay.” He stroked his hair the way his mother used to do for him, rocking him side to side, then continuing this constant soothing motion, he pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head.

Roman wasn't sure how long they sat like that, Virgil shaking with sobs so that it felt like the only thing holding him together at all was Roman's embrace. When Virgil finally stopped crying, Roman opened his mouth to ask if Virgil would like to talk about his nightmare, but Virgil let out a quiet snore. Roman found himself smiling fondly at the sleeping prince. It could certainly wait if Virgil was so exhausted. 

Roman shifted them to a more comfortable sleeping position, and Virgil's snores stopped for only a moment before picking up again. It took Roman a few moments longer than it should have to realize that he was stroking Virgil's hair still, and he stopped abruptly. Virgil let out a little grumble, but then began snoring peacefully away again. 

Conflicted, Roman considered pulling away completely, but that overwhelming urge to protect Virgil was ever-present. Did he even want to leave? Would Virgil even care if he did leave? What if it scared him to wake up alone? So it was decided, Roman would stay. But he certainly couldn't sleep now. Not with Virgil so close and after what he thought they almost did. He resigned himself to a sleepless night just holding Virgil, not that that was so bad. 

After all, he got to watch him. Watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest; the way his eyelashes fanned over the skin below his eyes, which was dark with sleeplessness. The way his hands curled around the fabric of Roman's shirt, lithe fingers entangling themselves in it as if to keep Roman from leaving. The way his perfect pink lips were parted just slightly, though he breathed through his nose. Perfect, everything about him. 

Roman almost physically jumped. He couldn't think like that, not now, not ever. Virgil wouldn't—couldn't—care for him in the same way. The way he most certainly, definitely, did not, under any circumstances, feel about Virgil. He sighed, turning his head to bury his face in the pillow. 

When Roman woke, it was to birdsong. It was overcast outside, but some light shone in through the window. Virgil had stopped snoring, due to a slight change in position, but he was still sound asleep. Roman, without thinking, sleepily kissed Virgil's head, the way he had the only other morning he'd been awake before Virgil. 

Virgil mumbled something. At first, Roman wasn't sure what it was, then it processed. "Love." Just that one word. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Was it just sleepy rambling? Before Roman could panic about that too much, Virgil was stretching and yawning. Roman thought he was going to wake up, but then he just settled down again with his face just barely an inch from Roman's. Roman could feel the blush on his own face. 

The heat only spread like a wildfire when the tip of Virgil’s nose adorably connected with Roman’s— was it possible to be this in-awe of a single, accidental brush of contact? Apparently so— causing him to hardly notice two smooth brown eyes blinking open, though Virgil blearily humming certainly snapped Roman into attention. “You came,” was all the other said before burrowing closer to where he couldn’t see his face. 

What… in the name of Zeus… did that  _ mean _ ?

“Virgil, what?” Roman asked, confusion lacing his voice. 

Virgil seemed to startle, and he pulled back to almost look at Roman in surprise. For a moment his brow furrowed and his eyes moved in a slow arch of thought, then he made the facial-expression equivalent of a shrug. “Morning, village idiot.” Oh, how Roman’s heart soared. 

“Mor-ning,” he stuttered eloquently, “Er, vision of beauty and grace.” He tried to say it teasingly, but it just came out pathetically affectionate, and to make it worse, he brushed the hair out of Virgil’s eyes. He seemed to consider him for a moment. His eyes looked nothing but threatening, and Roman swallowed, opening his mouth. 

Roman startlingly found himself in a tight embrace. Was it for comfort? Was it to say thank you? Was it a reminder that Virgil could strangle him if he wanted to? Was it just because Virgil could? Virgil’s earth-rattling screams crept into his mind, and the chilling way he couldn’t stop crying until he’d exhausted himself, passing out in Roman’s arms without so much as a word. “Do you want to—”

“No.”

“Are we just gonna—”

“Yep.”

“Alright. It’s going to rain anyways, so we’ll have to wait the storm out in here, but there’s a performance later we can go to if it stops—”

“Princey?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Virgil pinched the nape of his neck. Roman had to bite his tongue to hold back laughter. 

He decided the embrace was for comfort despite Virgil’s clipped responses. There was a certain shakiness behind his voice, an edge of vulnerability that the guise of annoyance barely concealed. Such coldness only meant that whatever the dream had been was unbearable—  _ unspeakable _ — for Virgil, and Roman knew because he’d been there many times. Vivid dreams caused by an acidic guilt over leaving his brother, (and sister, whom he hadn’t even told Virgil about because his guilt over her  _ overwhelmed _ the amount for Remus), kept him up most nights before Virgil came along last week. 

So he held him. He held him fiercely and without abandon, hoping to love the darkness out of him, and whatever Virgil needed him to be henceforward was what he would be. 

After there’d been a long enough silence for Roman to be able to claim he’d forgotten Virgil telling him to shut up, he softly announced, “Happy one week anniversary, my sweet bird-charmer.” And if he felt Virgil smile against his chest, he didn’t mention it. 

The rain began. And it wasn't all those things that rain so often was in stories. It wasn't renewal or rebirth; it didn't wash away the past; it wasn't a fresh start. But that was alright. Virgil and Roman didn't need a fresh start. They needed progress. And that's what this felt like to Roman. Slow progress, but still progress. 

Virgil didn't pull away. He stayed close, stayed still. They listened to the patter of the rain on the roof. When the roof began to leak, directly onto Roman's head, eliciting an indignant gasp, Virgil laughed.

Still, this unfortunately meant that Roman had to pull away to fix the roof. He patched it quickly with some extra thatch he kept just in case, and vowed to fix it completely the following day. Virgil made a face as if he was quietly doubting that Roman would actually do that. 

When Roman sat back down on the bed, Virgil quickly buried himself in Roman's chest again. Roman froze for a moment, a bit surprised, though it probably should have come as no shock, then hugged him back again. Apparently Virgil needed more. That was fine. Roman was more than happy to provide. He rubbed Virgil's back soothingly, nuzzling into Virgil's hair. He could allow himself that much. Surely this meant nothing to Virgil other than the obvious comfort he derived from it. But Roman could allow himself those small indulgences. 

When the rain stopped, Virgil slowly pulled away and stretched, much to Roman's disappointment. "You said something about a show?"

"Hm? Oh! Yes! There's a show at the theatre this afternoon! Would you like to go?" Roman asked. 

Virgil looked away, seemingly thinking it over. "...Okay. That sounds fun."

Roman lit up. "Oh, you're going to love this, Virgil! Let's get dressed!" He practically leapt out of the bed, grabbing clothes before going to change in the small washroom. 

He threw on clothes at a record pace, fumbling with the laces on his pants, then slowly and carefully did his hair with neat precision. When he was done, he waited patiently outside his bedroom door after a quiet knock. “You can come in,” Virgil called. 

He pushed open the door to a scene he couldn’t help but swallow at. Virgil’s arms were above his head, stretching his fair skin more noticeably over his ribs and pulling his stomach taught, but the view of his bare chest was a fleeting one as one of Roman’s nicer shirts slipped down to block it. Virgil gave him a small smile, and he shook himself from his state of frozen-ness to go grab his socks. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your clothes all the time. I can just wear the shirt you bought me if you’d like,” Virgil mentioned, sitting down on top of the chest at the foot of Roman’s bed to put his own socks on. 

“No, no. You’re more than welcome to any of my clothes,” Roman assured. Virgil looked ravi— er—  _ totally comfortable _ in them. What else would he be?!

Virgil raised an eyebrow, grabbing his boots to begin putting them on with a seemingly fond shake of his head. “If you say so.”

Roman panicked and said nothing as he left the room to grab his boots and cloak from downstairs. As he was lacing them with practiced ease, Virgil appeared in his cloak, descending in a vision of extravagance. Roman could imagine him just the same coming down the palace stairs of Eloria, surrounded in golden swirls decorating the walls and countless pieces of art that stood no chance against his beauty. Roman would take his hand from where he waited at the bottom, and together they would… Roman shook his head, denying himself of the rest of that fantasy. 

He looked back down to his boots. “Ready?” he asked nonchalantly, when he really meant:  _ you look incredible. _

“Yeah.”

Roman swiftly stood, grabbing his cloak as he did, and he threw it over his shoulders in one motion. He took a deep breath. “Then let’s go.” He grabbed some food from the kitchen on the way out. 

The walk there was silent in the pleasant sort of way, but that didn’t mean he preferred the absence of Virgil’s giggles. However, Virgil’s small hand in his was enough to make up for that. It had slid into his own after a long moment of quiet, catching Roman off-guard, and after only a second, he’d smiled. Neither said a word about it. 

Elliot was nowhere to be seen, though that could have been due to the recent rain, and Roman was disappointed in the lack of things to make his prince smile. He could only hope that the magic of the theater would fix him right up, bringing back his playful fiend in no time. And oh, there it was in all its glory, and even Virgil un-tensed just to gape at it, forgetting the anxiety being in public caused him. Virgil was excitedly pulling him inside in a matter of seconds. 

They had to go around to the side of the huge white circular walls, two stories high, and enter closer to the center building where the stage and what was behind it lay. Roman wondered what backstage looked like; if there were dressing rooms, how they stored the costumes, makeup, and wigs, and what it looked like buzzing with actors about to perform. His curiosity couldn’t be satiated until he saw it himself. He so badly wanted to weave through his fellow actors as he rushed to get ready for his opening night. 

Streams of people flowed inside, and Roman was amazed at how Virgil hardly paid them any mind, pushing past them when necessary. He held his purple cloak up for him so that no one dared to step on it, and Virgil’s face fell when their hands no longer interlocked. Maybe he’d imagined it, or maybe Virgil was just worried about getting separated in the crowd, but either way Roman felt torn between taking it again and protecting the new apparel. The thought quickly left his mind when he paused to roll his eyes at over-extravagantly dressed snobs adorned in bright colors and jewels bribing the man collecting entry fees for the best seats. Or maybe the quick slip of the black velvet coin pouch was for something else he didn’t quite have context for, so he decided that he’d make up some outlandish story about it with Virgil on the walk back home for something amusing to talk about. 

When it was their turn to pay admittance, Roman presented ten Ayhfinne, (enough for ten loaves of bread, and five times the price of regular admittance), that made a nice clinking sound as they collided with the other coins in the box, and another man was summoned to lead them to their private room with cushioned seats up the stairs. He wanted Virgil to have the best possible experience he could. If it took a large portion of his non-precious-gem savings just to let him see the view from behind the balcony, then so be it. The boy, without a doubt, was entirely worth it. 

And the view from the balcony was wonderful. The stage glowed in the late afternoon light, soon to be lit by lanterns instead. Virgil stood at the edge of the balcony and stared in awe over the crowd below them, his hand finding Roman's again. Roman chuckled softly and gave Virgil's hand a little squeeze. "I knew you'd love it." 

Virgil scoffed, his face reddening just slightly. "Right, yes, it's… fine."

Rolling his eyes, Roman gestured to the view from the balcony. "You're telling me that this isn't gorgeous?"

"I guess… it is kind of pretty," Virgil admitted. 

_ Not as pretty as you.  _ "It's a different kind of beauty than the palace, right?" Roman said. "Beautiful in its own way." 

Virgil nodded. "I don't miss it. You know that, right? I like living with you." 

Roman leaned to try to get Virgil to look at him, but Virgil was still fixated on the view. "I'm glad," he said softly.

As the sun sank lower, and the lanterns grew brighter, Roman gently guided Virgil to sit down in the chairs on the balcony. And the show began. 

***

Roman and Virgil burst into the cottage, laughing raucously and shoving each other lightly.

"You're wrong, Princey," Virgil said, shaking his head, "That definitely wasn't on purpose."

"I didn't say it was! I just said that it's part of the experience! Sometimes actors mess up, but I think it makes the whole thing better," Roman said. 

Virgil rolled his eyes fondly. "You're such an idealist."

"I don't see how that's a bad thing," Roman shot back, grinning. 

"I didn't say it was," Virgil replied. It was at this point that they both noticed Roman's arm around Virgil's waist, and Virgil's hand on Roman's chest. Virgil pulled away quickly, and Roman had a hard time hiding his disappointment. 

"It's late…" Virgil said. Roman nodded. 

He was really starting to hate this part of their new routine. 

He didn’t watch Virgil depart this time, knowing the taste would be too bitter after such a beautiful afternoon. Though… tonight was different. Virgil turned around with eyes full of resolve, and Roman looked up in hopeful surprise. “You wanted to know about that dream I had last night?” Virgil began hesitantly. Roman wouldn’t exactly call it a dream, more like a night terror judging by the broken screams that had come forth from deep within him. Regardless, he nodded. 

“Dante killed you right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.” He sounded choked-up, like even the thought of it tore him up inside, and Roman knew that if he’d had that same dream, he wouldn’t be able to let go of Virgil for one second afterwards. So the screams he’d heard… they’d been those of grief?

“Virgil… I’m so sorry.” He took a step towards him, aching to hold his hand. To have his cold fingers slowly warm up to his own was bliss every time. “I promise he will never harm you and I.”

His gaze trailed up his arm to look upon his face, and what he found were tears. “How can you be so sure? What if he finds us?”

“I’ll run him through with my sword.” He couldn’t promise that he’d be successful, but saying such uncertainties aloud was not what Virgil needed at the moment. Again he rested but a few inches from Virgil with the need to do  _ something.  _ Seeing his stormcloud raining like this killed him a thousand times over, his shaky hands reaching to calm the storm and catch the heated raindrops from beneath his soft, dark clouds, wetting his thumbs. Virgil pressed into the contact. 

“Just  _ please _ … Promise me you’ll never go away or leave me,” Virgil begged, eyes flickering between each of Roman’s as he searched for his answer. They were both utterly terrified of being alone again, and Roman could see that clearly in his glistening amber orbs. 

“I swear it to you,” he responded fiercely. Virgil’s eyes fluttered shut in a state of calm at that, and with the need for eye contact gone, Roman followed suit before nudging their foreheads together, needing to be close to Virgil every second of his life from here on out. 

Then he felt arms encircle his waist, so he moved his own down from Virgil’s face to wrap around his neck instead. That was when the shorter one nuzzled his nose against Roman’s until he settled on a comfortable position, and he swore he could  _ feel _ the pink in his cheeks. Roman was completely taken. Nothing would ever compare to that close, intimate brush of contact, that he knew for sure, for even if Virgil had kissed him, the amount of trust and comfort involved just wasn’t the same. And they simply stayed there in the living room, holding each other tight for longer than they could count. 

Roman couldn’t have asked for more. 

  
  



	27. Record Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton and Logan meet with King Remus in the beautiful kingdom of Eloria seeking an alliance, and on the way to Reishel they have a serious discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juniper here! Ceisle and I are having so much fun writing this, and we can't wait to lead you through the rest of this story. Big props to him for his incredible writing abilities and breathtaking descriptions.

A gasp from Patton snapped Logan out of the thoughts he had been so deeply lost in. He looked up, and the sight nearly made him gasp as well. Over the hill, the palace had become visible. 

It  _ sparkled _ . 

The main keep wasn't large and clunky as one tended to expect, but instead, it somehow seemed dainty and beautiful, as if meticulously carved by the gentle hand of a giant. Spires surrounded the keep, different heights, asymmetrical, but gorgeous in their chaos. The walls around the palace had been covered with paint and tiles in an incredible display. From this distance, Logan could make out figures, flowers, trees, and an ocean scene within the intricate mosaic. The palace itself was marble, smooth and polished and carved into elegant structures. Logan had seen the outside of three palaces now, and this one was, without a doubt, the most dazzling. 

"Come on, Patton," Logan said softly, pulling his eyes away from the palace and looking to his companion. He much preferred this view, he found. 

Patton looked back at him and smiled brightly, optimistic as always. "Let's go get some more help." Logan nodded, and they both looked at the road in front of them as they made their way to the palace. 

"Who goes there?" a guard asked them at the gate, stepping forward. 

"We seek an audience with King Remus,” Logan answered, “We wish to request aid.”

The guard looked them over and turned to the guard at the other side of the huge gate. They exchanged a look before the guard that had addressed them before said, "You will wait here."

Patton frowned, then made a vague gesture at Logan's chest.

It took Logan far too long to realize Patton was gesturing at his medallion. He cleared his throat, then displayed the medallion with his hand so the guard could see. "We come on behalf of Queen Ophelia of Caemas."

The guard paused for a moment, seeming to be conflicted, then he waved up to someone in the watchtower, and the gate began to swing open. "We can keep your horses in the stables until you leave," he said, gesturing for them to enter. 

Once inside, Logan swung down off his horse, then held a hand out to help Patton down, though he knew Patton didn't need it. Someone grabbed the reins of their horses to lead them away, which made Patton visibly nervous, but Logan reassured him by grabbing his hand.

They moved to continue forward, but a hand placed on Patton’s chest by that same guard abruptly stopped him, and Logan found some sort of strange emotion flaring up inside him. “We’ll need your arrows too.” Patton’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he moved to comply with the order. At least if they didn’t get the arrows back, they could be replaced, whereas the intricate bow could not.

With the arrows pulled from his quiver and handed over, a new guard approached them, this one with a smile. "I'll be taking you to see the King, Sirs." He gestured for them to follow, still smiling. 

"Thank you," Patton said as they followed him into the building from the courtyard. 

The inside of the building was just as gorgeous as the outside, all intricate carvings and crystal chandeliers. Patton squeezed Logan's hand tighter. A pair of gorgeous mahogany staircases sat on either side of the room, meeting in a landing at the top. There were several doors on either side of the room at the bottoms of the staircases, and one large set of double doors beneath the landing, flanked by two more guards. The smiling guard motioned to them, and they pushed the doors open. Then the smiling guard stepped aside and motioned for Logan and Patton to go ahead. 

Just before Logan traversed through the doors, his eyes were drawn to one of the many murals in the current room, this one nearly twice as big as any other and framed in red velvet curtains. If not for one detail, it likely wouldn’t have caught his attention. That one detail? It was the only imperfect thing he’d seen in Eloria thus far. The curtain on the right was left untied, hanging down to conceal half of the piece. The only visible imagery was, if he wasn’t mistaken, the current Queen and her curly dark hair and haunting eyes with her hand gently resting on what, he could only assume, was her son’s shoulder. He had the same wild hair with hints of green in his uniform to match her emerald gown. But hadn’t she had twins? Is that what the curtain concealed? A hand rested on her waist, attached to an arm that snaked behind her: at least one more person, quite conceivably her late husband, was blocked by the curtain.

Logan shook off his odd feeling about the painting, taking a handful of swift steps to catch up to Patton.

The throne room was far bigger than the entryway, though that was fairly large in and of itself. A huge stained-glass window depicting a man with a sword surrounded by red, orange, and yellow flowers took up most of the wall behind the two thrones. The thrones themselves were intricate, carved wood and gorgeous purple upholstery, with heavy square bases, also carved, with branches and birds and flowers. The thrones sat on a raised dais, five steps above the rest of the room. The floors were the same marble as the walls, cast with the colors of the stained glass window. The walls had figures carved into them, each clearly important and wonderfully detailed. 

On the thrones sat a man and a woman. The man was dressed in green and black, and far more simply than Logan had expected based on everything about the palace. He wore a relatively plain doublet— except for the sleeves, which poofed at the shoulders— with a green sash. His pants were plain as well, but his boots gave away his wealth, clearly high quality. It was as if getting a glance into the future of the painting he’d seen. He wore no crown, though the woman wore a tiara. She was dressed in blue and purple, her many-layered dress somehow draping perfectly around her. The bodice of her dress covered more than Ophelia's had. 

"Welcome," the man, presumably King Remus, said, "state your business."

His voice was more nasally than Logan would have expected from the gruff-looking man with the mustache that twirled at both ends. His hair was still quite wild, and his face was long and pale, bringing out the dark purple bags beneath his eyes. His wife— Logan didn’t know for sure if she was queen or if the king’s mother was still alive— had auburn hair and a very roundish face with eyes far less intimidating than the darting, maniacal-looking ones of Remus. He forced himself to stop staring and actually form a well thought out response. 

“All of the kingdoms are under threat. Dark magic has taken over Reishel, and the king there has gone mad. Caemas comes seeking your alliance to join the battle in two day’s time to overthrow the king, restoring old alliances and putting the rightful heir, Prince Virgil, on the throne,” Logan announced. He glanced at Patton to make sure he did okay, and he gave him a lovely reassuring smile that calmed his nerves. 

The king was quiet for a moment, then he turned and whispered something to his wife that made her face twitch with a smile. He proceeded to lick her ear, and suddenly the heavily silent room filled with giggles like tinkling bells. Logan’s brow furrowed. Was there something he was missing? Was something he said funny? He glanced at Patton, but he was no help either, grinning brightly. 

Remus went back to sitting straight in his throne, trying to look serious and failing miserably. “We should probably discuss this somewhere more comfortable,” he decided. Logan relaxed, for he was glad to hear that the king would at least consider helping them. 

Remus’ wife—  _ gods  _ Logan wished someone could tell him her name or at least her title; he’d been in a mirror for eighteen years, so his news was a  _ little _ out of date— took over. “Guards! Have the servants prepare the strategy room for battle plans and gather the generals,” she ordered. The ones at the door nodded, marching off to carry out their orders with unreadable faces, and were replaced by two more guards from the outside. 

So they were going to help them? Just like that? Logan was bewildered and grateful all at once, yet he forced himself to keep a neutral face. 

“What are your names?” the woman asked. Again, Logan really wished he knew hers. 

“I am Logan of Caemas, and this is Patton of Reishel.” He bowed, and Patton followed suit like a clumsy toddler with his hood falling onto his head. Logan struggled to keep a straight face. “I am afraid I am a little behind on my news, for I do not know yours.”

“I am Princess Coraline of Eloria,” she kindly responded. So the Queen  _ was _ still alive. Logan thought it would be odd for both of Remus’ parents— and possibly his brother, for wasn’t his twin supposed to be the heir?— to have passed at such a young age. After all, wasn’t Remus only about nineteen? The twins and Virgil had been born around the same time, so it was likely.

Logan pulled himself from his consideration of the royal family to say, "A pleasure, Your Highness."

"The pleasure is mine, Logan of Caemas and Patton of Reishel," she said charmingly. She really was a lovely woman. Patton smiled back at her, a far bigger grin than her small and sweet smile. She giggled again. "Perhaps, on a day when there are not such serious matters to discuss, we could have tea together." She was already fond of Patton. Of course, it was difficult not to be. 

"It would be an honor, Your Highness," Logan said, and Patton nodded amicably. 

"I love tea," Patton remarked. "It's a rare treat for me."

The Princess's smile turned sad, and King Remus patted her hand. "The price of tea really is a shame. Although, I know a lot of tea is grown in Caemas. It must be cheaper there."

Logan shifted slightly. "Yes, it is quite affordable."

Coraline brightened a little. "Perhaps one day you two could visit and bring me your favorite tea from Caemas."

Logan cast a glance at Patton. Would they even still be… travelling together—? Living together?— after all this was over? Logan couldn't be sure, but he knew he never wanted to let Patton go. 

Patton just nodded again and said, "That sounds wonderful, Princess Coraline." 

Just then, a servant stepped in to tell them that the strategy room was ready and the generals gathered. 

Coraline and Remus stood, and Remus gestured for them to follow. They walked out a side door of the throne room, through a long hallway for a while, then turned left into another hallway, then up some stairs into yet another hallway, then into the third door on the right. Logan didn’t think he’d ever get used to walking in such close proximity to the most infamous people in his world.

The strategy room was a square chamber with a table in the middle of it, a map on which depicted the three kingdoms and the smaller city-states around them. There was only about four feet of space from the wall to the edge of the table on all four sides. A strict-looking man, two strict-looking women, and a strict-looking person of indeterminate gender stood around the table, and they bowed when the King and the Princess entered. 

"Alright, people," Remus said, a grin spreading slowly across his face, "let's get to work."

***

“Didn’t the king have a twin?” Logan asked as quietly as he could while still being heard over the beat of hooves. Patton’s horse— a beautiful light palomino— trotted closely alongside his own dark brown one, both of them donning armor and mixed in amongst the sea of soldiers and nobles. They’d hopefully be in Reishel two days from now. 

“No idea.” Patton smiled, taking his left foot out of the stirrup to playfully nudge his leg. Logan couldn’t help but feel fond over the act. 

“Of course not,” Logan teased, “The birds don’t speak of news from other kingdoms.”

“Hey!”

Logan snorted, copying the way Patton had nudged him. “I know. I’m only teasing, dear. You’re the smartest man I know.” Patton huffed, and Logan jerked his head in the direction of the closest general. He was one of the larger ones. “I’ll ask him.”

“Be careful,” Patton said softly. Logan nodded, barely catching the way Patton looked down and began fidgeting with the reins, and he noted it with a hint of confusion. Then he picked up speed to catch up to General… Mannis, was it?

His armor had swirling grooves embedded in the silver, all painted with different colors in a beautiful array. A teal cape hung over his shoulder with a clasp of gold. The colors complimented his skin tone well. When Logan approached, his brown eyes glanced to his side, gloved hands tightening on the reins controlling his breathtaking white horse. “You’re the boy sent from Caemas, correct?” he asked, and his voice was far more smooth than Logan had been expecting, causing him to blink. 

“I am,” he responded easily. “I was wondering if you could tell me what happened to the King’s brother. I haven’t been caught up on the news in many years.”

The question made the general’s brow furrow, and his mouth drew into a tight frown filled with troubling memories. When he finally spoke, it was done so softly. “He went missing on his wedding day about two years ago. My soldiers and I swept the kingdom for him for weeks, but nobody could find him, and then King Vincent got sick so we had to stop to pay our respects. Does that answer your question?”

Logan bowed his head. “Indeed. I am truly sorry for your loss. Thank you.”

Before Logan could slow his horse down enough to fall back, the general looked at him with interest, opening his mouth. “How do you know the King of Reishel?”

Logan almost winced. Something in his chest hurt. “My father was his tutor back in Caemas, and I would accompany him to work. We grew up together as best friends. I watched as he learned magic.” The general raised his eyebrows. “At first it was beautiful, but then he toyed with black magic, and it began driving him mad.” Logan sighed. “He trapped me in a mirror and took me to Reishel with him.”

“For how long?!” Only then did Logan realize how insane it all sounded to an outsider. What could he say? He swung between being deeply traumatized and desensitized to it all at once.

“Eighteen years,” he responded.

General Mannis just looked sorry for him. “How old are you?”

“Physically? Twenty. In years? Thirty eight. I’ve known Dante since I was six.”

The man laughed incredulously, likely shocked. “And how did you escape?” Something in Logan felt validated to have such an important person with so many stories of his own be so intrigued with him, yet… He glanced back fondly at Patton who was distracted by the clouds, and remembered who made him feel even more special. If only he could tell him…  _ before _ they threw themselves into danger with the possibility of not making it out. 

“Last week the King ordered for the Prince to be killed, and he sent  _ him _ to do it.” The general turned his head to follow Logan’s gaze before they both looked ahead again. “Well, Patton came back with a pig heart as evidence, and once the King found out, he nearly killed him.” Logan took a deep breath, trying not to think too hard about how that could have turned out. “He got away, luckily. But not before finding out about me. See, when I was in the mirror...” He paused, remembering. “...I had the ability to answer any question I was asked, and I couldn’t resist it. Patton knew I was too dangerous to be in Dante’s hands. He came back that night to steal me.” Logan’s eyes were drawn to his rescuer again with a reminiscent smile. “I told him that Dante would never stop coming after me, so the only way was to shatter the mirror, and he did. Somehow it set me free.”

The general looked at him out of the corner of his eye, expression dancing with fascination. “That’s one crazy week,” he mused. Mannis shook his head. “What’s your name, again? I didn’t catch it.”

“Logan,” he provided. 

“Good luck, Logan.”

“You too, Sir Mannis.” The general laughed, though Logan didn’t get what was funny, and he slowed the horse to rejoin Patton. 

“So?” Patton prompted. 

“He just disappeared two years ago. No one knows why.”

“What were you two talking about then?”

“Dante… and you,” he said. His mind kept drifting back to the thought of how much he truly cared about Patton, and how you couldn’t take moments of tranquility like this for granted. 

“Oh.” Something sounded odd about the way he said it, as if Logan talking about him would be a bad thing. 

“Only about how smart you were and how you rescued me. Nothing about your magic,” he explained, and with a brave inhale, he held out his hand for Patton to take. The man gave him a soft smile, gladly receiving it. They were quiet for a while.

“Patton?”

“Hm?”

_ It was now or never.  _ “We’re going to be in a lot of danger soon, and—”

“Logan, I’m scared,” said Patton suddenly. His voice shook, and when Logan looked over at him, there were tears in his eyes. “I grew up in a hut. I’ve been alone for more years than anyone deserves to be, and I’m finally getting to see the world and it’s all with you, and I just… What if I lose that? I’m not ready. I can’t even control my magic, so how am I supposed to protect you?” Patton tilted his head back in a desperate attempt to stop his eyes from leaking, choking on a sob. 

And what could he say? That everything was going to be alright? That love would protect them? It never had before. It only made the blows more devastating. Yet at the same time... it was what kept him going, and no matter what he did, it would always exist. 

Logan set his jaw determinedly and reached over, teetering dangerously, to take Patton's face in his hands. "I don't know, Patton," he said earnestly. "But I do know, deep in my heart, that you and I were meant to find each other, and I know that this is what we are meant to do. It is alright to be scared. It only means you are about to do something very,  _ very _ brave, and you, my Patton, are the bravest man I’ve ever met."

Patton sniffled and managed a small tearful smile. "Thanks, Logan." 

_ I love you,  _ Logan almost responded. But he didn't want to make it even more painful if he was ripped away from Patton. So he didn't. "You're very welcome," he said instead, slowly and reluctantly taking his hands away so they could catch up to where they were supposed to be again. He sighed, staring ahead. It  _ had _ been a crazy week. And he knew it was just going to get crazier. 

  
  



End file.
